


Whispers in the Night

by Silbrith



Series: Crossed Lines [1]
Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7557334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, and the Winchester brothers are unlikely allies when what first sounded like a joke turns into something far more sinister. H/C: injuries, angst. Fluff: dork curse, Peeper Jamboree. Travel: South Jersey swamp. April 2005. #15 in Caffrey Conversation AU. Crossed Lines story #1, a fusion of Supernatural with Caffrey Conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Buttonwood

_A/N: Although this story is part of a series, it can stand on its own. No knowledge of either White Collar or Supernatural is required. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is thirteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. Additional notes are at the end of the chapter._

* * *

**Black Ash Swamp, New Jersey. April 3, 2005. Sunday night.**

The woman returned to her car and sped off down the highway.

The two men arrived at the pull-off as the black Mustang disappeared into the evening mist. They'd run with preternatural speed through the swamp but were too late to catch her.

"Damn. She was almost ours." He sniffed the moist air. "I can still smell her."

"Just as well. You know our orders. C'mon. Doc's waiting. The others will have arrived and he warned us not to be late."

"So? What's he gonna do? Not let us feed?" He started back down the dark path then froze, pointing into the swamp.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't you see her?"

"Where? That ghostly pillar of white? That's her?"

"Yeah, and she's coming this way."

"Then we better not hang around." They raced along the path, the trees a blur as they skimmed over the soggy ground. "We can't do anything to jinx our chances. The awakening is only a few months off."

"You reckon the reports are true?"

"Doc met with them. You get him to describe what happened, then you'll believe."

**White Collar Task Force, Federal Building, New York City. April 7, 2005. Thursday afternoon.**

"Define strange. . . . You're right, even for Mozzie that's a stretch. . . . .He did what? . . . Seriously? . . . I'll come down tomorrow." Neal turned off his phone and looked over at Peter. "I'm not sure if this is an emergency or not, but Janet needs my help."

Up to then it had been a routine meeting to discuss the upcoming White Collar budget, or what passed for a routine meeting when Neal Caffrey was involved. Special Agent Peter Burke had grown accustomed long ago to cutting his consultant a little slack. Janet Dodson, the girlfriend of Neal's friend Mozzie, didn't normally call at the office. Peter was glad Neal had taken it. "Has something happened to Mozzie?"

He nodded. "Just don't ask me what. Mozzie left with Janet on Monday for a week-long getaway to rural New Jersey. Mozzie had never experienced the thrill of spring peepers and —"

"Hold on, spring peepers? Isn't Mozzie normally the one doing the peeping?"

"I had the same reaction when he first mentioned it to me," he admitted, "and was informed that spring peepers are small woodland frogs. They're calling right now—mating season, you know. Mozzie planned to spend several evenings with Janet in a swamp, listening to the peepers. She'd mentioned she'd like to go on a field trip to hear them. He hoped their peeps would act as an aphrodisiac for Janet. Mozzie found a romantic inn near Black Ash Swamp and went to great lengths —"

"I get the idea. No need to draw the picture." Peter had to give Mozzie points. Not a bad tactic. Janet was a costume designer who liked to draw inspiration for her ideas from wildlife. Mozzie prided himself on being a kindred soul with Thoreau, which, coming from a man who'd spent his life in cities was a bit perplexing, but then Mozzie danced to a different tune from the rest of the world.

"Janet called because Mozzie's acting strangely, and she's worried something's wrong."

"Are you sure she's not simply confused by his interpretation of the mating ritual?"

Neal shrugged. "That's certainly a possibility, but even for Mozzie, his behavior seems out of character."

"Perhaps all that fresh air got to him? She should just bring him back to New York. Once he's on his home turf he'll be fine."

"She tried to persuade him. He refuses to leave, and Mozzie can give a new meaning to the word _stubborn_ if he chooses. Janet's asked me to come down to help."

"Where exactly is Black Ash Swamp?"

"It's in the Pinelands, in Wharton State Forest. Janet said they're staying in a small town called Buttonwood which is near the swamp. It's about a two-hour drive from here. I've got a class this evening or I'd leave after work. I'll call her in the morning, and if he hasn't improved, I'll drive down tomorrow." Neal paused for a moment. "You know after all the late nights and weekend work for the last case, doesn't the Bureau owe me some comp time? Tomorrow's Friday. I'm caught up on my case assignments …"

Neal was due more than one day of comp time, and he wasn't the only one deserving a break. Peter's wife Elizabeth was away visiting her parents. The paperwork he'd planned for the weekend could wait. "Would you like some company? I haven't been down to the Pinelands in quite a while. I've got wheels—save you having to rent a car."

Neal broke into a grin. "A road trip with you? I'd love it, but what will you do with Satchmo?"

"We trade dog-sitting chores with our next-door neighbor. I'll give her a call. We can leave from the office after the morning briefing as long as nothing urgent comes up. Couple of stipulations first, though."

"Name 'em, partner."

"We ditch the suits for jeans before leaving. I refuse to drive down to South Jersey in a suit."

"Agreed. I can easily lose the threads. What else?"

"My car. My music."

"Now that one's going to require negotiation."

"When we ride in your car, you can pick the music."

"Very funny. That's enough to make me buy one."

"Be prepared to have your ears educated," Peter said smugly as he picked up the sheet of paper containing Neal's budget requests. "By the way, what has Mozzie done that has Janet so worried?"

Neal winced. "You don't want to know." 

**Roadside Diner in East Pennsylvania. April 7, 2005. Thursday afternoon.**

"Thank you"—Dean checked the waitress's name tag—"Belinda. What a lovely name. It should be the title of a song."

Sam looked up from his laptop in time to see Dean give Belinda his guaranteed turn-any-waitress-into-mush smile. Sam rolled his eyes upward to the dingy white ceiling of the diner. The stains looked suspiciously like the aftermath of an especially messy demon slaying. They'd stopped for a quick lunch. Just burgers and fries and they'd be on their way again—that's what Dean had promised. But that was before he'd seen Belinda, or the pool table, or the poker game going on in the back room.

The diner was popular with truckers, or as Dean called them "marks on wheels." He argued, not without merit, that their resources could stand with restocking and besides the diner was world-famous for pie. Hadn't he been reading the highway signs for the past ten miles attesting to the fact? Sam smiled. They'd just finished lunch and celebratory slices of pie, all bought with proceeds from a round of pool. If Dean wanted to flirt with Belinda, his kid brother wouldn't stand in the way.

After taking down that last demon in Coraopolis, they both could use a break. Dean had done his best to get Sam to follow his lead, nudging him repeatedly about Lacey at the cash register. But when Sam checked out the blonde bombshell, he had his doubts.

Instead, he'd spent the past hour researching unusual sightings in the area on the internet. He hadn't given up on his dream to go to law school just so he could hang out with Lacey in a roadside diner. Dean was the one who harped incessantly on the family business—saving people, killing things. So that's what Sam was doing and now he'd hit upon something.

Looking up at Dean, he tapped the display. "Here's something interesting."

Dean was still giving a dopey smile to the goddess of the moment. "More interesting than Belinda?"

"Might be. According to a news report, there's a town in South Jersey where the men are turning into dorks."

"It's New Jersey, Sam. Lots of dorks in New Jersey."

"Yeah, but listen to this. The town is called Buttonwood—not much of a town, by the way. It's near a state park. Seems to serve mainly the tourist trade."

"Boring. No wonder they're dorks."

"Hear me out. The women claim their men weren't always that way. They appear to be changing overnight. Only adult men are being affected."

"Maybe the women woke up to the realization they married idiots. Not our problem."

The curvaceous Belinda walked up to Dean with a steaming slice of apple pie. "This just came out of the oven. I thought you'd like a piece . . . on the house."

"Why thank you, Belinda." Dean blinked his eyes winningly as Sam groaned inwardly. "You wouldn't happen to have any ice cream for the pie?"

While the infatuated Belinda left to fetch ice cream, Sam tried yet again to get his brother to focus. "It sounds suspicious to me. And that's not all. I checked the police records. Over the past month there have been reports of four people who've gone missing. That's an unusually high number for a town that size."

"They probably ran away out of boredom. We can't start checking out every town where a few people have disappeared. Are there any corpses? Cattle mutilations?"

"No, but it may still be worth dropping by. It's not that far away. They're holding a festival there this weekend. Peeper Jamboree they call it."

Swallowing a bite of pie, Dean pointed his fork at Sam. "Can it possibly get more hokey? No wonder the town's filled with dorks."

Sam played his trump card. "They're advertising free food at the festival."

"How far away did you say Buttonwood is?"

The dorks of Buttonwood, however, were not considered a sufficient enough threat to warrant an immediate departure. It was late Friday morning by the time they rolled into the metropolis of Buttonwood, a thriving community of 2,950 residents. The sounds of "Soul Man" by the Blues Brothers were blaring out of the car speakers. Dean had been on a nostalgia kick for the past several days. Someday Sam was going to have to modernize his music tastes. He'd taken a few stabs at it earlier, but all attempts had crashed and burned. For a guy whose prize possession was a 1967 Impala, Sam wondered why he even bothered. It hadn't yet arisen that Dean was forced to make the choice of saving either Sam or the Impala, but Sam had no doubt that Dean would rescue him then never let him hear the end of how he'd committed the ultimate sacrifice.

The news report was right. Buttonwood appeared to cater mainly to the tourists, with many more motels and restaurants than you'd expect from a town that size. The place wasn't without a certain appeal. A few Victorian houses, some converted to inns, a volunteer fire station in an old brick building that looked to have been built in horse-and-buggy days. Several antique shops that reeked of "olde towne charme." In fact most everything looked like you should add an _e_ to its name.

"What did you find out about the disappearances?" Dean asked.

"Two of them were from the county high school. Apparent runaways. A motorist was supposedly driving through the area and never reached his destination. A migrant worker disappeared from a farm west of the swamp. The police were skeptical it was a legitimate report. The guy didn't show up for work. He could have just gotten bored or gone somewhere else for higher wages."

Dean grimaced. "In other words, nothing that concerns us. This could be a gigantic waste of time. You were the one who wanted us to come here. How do you propose we handle it?"

"Walk down the street and look for dorks, I guess. What's our cover?"

"Standard FBI. I'm feeling a Chicago vibe. Agents Jake and Elwood."

Sam grinned. "Should we both wear dark glasses? I don't have a fedora."

"Our suits will be good enough. None of these people have probably seen an FBI agent before. Can't be much crime around here, unless the townies get so bored they start fights to give themselves something to do." Dean glanced over at Sam. "In all the research you've done, have you ever found any demons who got their jollies turning men into objects of ridicule?"

"Could be the Trickster acting up again." The Trickster had been an aggravating thorn in their sides, with the demigod adopting various disguises and causing a series of bizarre deaths.

"You could be on to something. The Trickster enjoys humiliating people." As they cruised down the main drag of Buttonwood, it didn't take long to spot a victim. "Bogey on my left," Dean muttered.

Sam glanced over to see a guy strolling down the street. Not an issue there. Middle-aged, mild-mannered in appearance. Looked like he could be a teacher or an insurance salesman. But in pajamas at eleven o'clock in the morning? And trying to balance an apple on his forehead as he walked? Sam turned his head to the right to see a distinguished-looking man in his sixties giggling to himself as he pushed a cantaloupe down the road with a golf putter. Yep, they'd found the nexus of dorkdom in New Jersey.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had talked with Janet several more times before they left and the reports weren't reassuring. Apparently Mozzie wasn't the only one acting strangely. A local newspaper had carried an article on an outbreak of unusual behavior exhibited by adult men in the community.

Neal discussed it with Peter, and they decided to take their overnight bags and laptops as a precaution. They hoped to convince Mozzie to return with them in the afternoon, but if Mozzie were as difficult to persuade as Janet had indicated, that might not be possible. They were able to leave the office at eleven on Friday. Even with stopping for lunch, they'd be in Buttonwood by the early afternoon.

During the drive Neal avoided discussing Mozzie's symptoms. It was too depressing to talk about. But he realized he couldn't hold off the inevitable forever.

When they were outside Barnegat Township, Peter glanced over. "Isn't it time you stop deflecting and fill me in on Mozzie's symptoms?"

Neal heaved a heartfelt sigh. "For the past two days all he wants to do is watch cartoons. His favorite appears to be _Scooby Doo_."

"Not _Mighty Mouse_?"

"Janet didn't mention it, but he was entranced by _My Little Pony_."

"I'll grant you that's unusual, but —"

"When Janet said all the time, she meant it literally. He doesn't want to eat and falls asleep in front of the TV. She dragged him to a café and he ordered a strawberry milkshake."

Peter raised his eyebrows at that. "Mozzie's lactose intolerant."

"Exactly. This could be serious. There's no way he'd order a milkshake if he were thinking clearly. But it gets worse. He proceeded to play with the straw, blowing with it into the milkshake as if he were a powerboat. He sprayed her with milkshake foam and was beside himself with laughter. You're chuckling, but you wouldn't be if you were there trying to deal with it."

"How was he this morning?"

"Janet said he wasn't watching cartoons, but had replaced them with reruns of _The Brady Bunch_. I don't think that qualifies as being a positive development."

Neal had been patience personified for most of the drive. He didn't say a word when Peter inserted his _Best of Woodstock_ CD into the player. But now they were only twenty minutes from Buttonwood and Peter was still working his way through his Crosby, Stills, and Nash collection. "Couldn't we have something written in this century?" Neal pleaded. "You admitted you like Coldplay. Just one song by Evanescence?"

"Send your complaints to my brother Joe," he replied, stretching his arms on the steering wheel. "I got my music tastes from him. Woodstock's not far from Albany and some of his friends attended the festival. Joe pleaded with my parents to be allowed, but he was only fifteen. I was five years old at the time, but even I knew it was a lost cause. Joe got his revenge, though. He obtained records of all the performers and blasted the music nonstop, till my dad banished Joe and his music to the basement."

Neal grinned. "And being the adoring little brother, you followed Joe to the basement."

"That music's in my blood now, so you might as well learn to love it. If you'd listen to the lyrics of 'Woodstock,' you'd realize it's highly appropriate. We may not be heading for Yasgur's farm but we're going to rural New Jersey. That's close enough."

"Was Joe also the one who taught you how to drive?"

"I don't think anyone taught me. I was a natural at it."

 _A natural at causing heart failure_. Where were the state police when you needed them? Special Agent Peter "By the Book" Burke when behind the wheel turned into Mario Andretti. Neal sank gloomily into his seat and resigned himself to his fate. Would he be another roadkill along the rural New Jersey highway? They'd gotten off the main highway at Barnegat and would drive the rest of the way on county roads. Narrow roads, oncoming trucks. Not a happy scenario. "You need to slow down. Hairpin curve ahead."

"I have eyes, Junior."

"Truck ahead. Watch it!"

"Didn't you bring a book? There's a notepad in the glove compartment. Make some origami. Stop lecturing me on driving."

"Good idea. I can make vultures to decorate my tombstone."

"It may interest you to know, wise guy, that I drive much more sedately now. You should have seen me in college. I had the sweetest car—red Mustang with black racing stripes—I worked my tail off to pay for it."

"Is that why you drive a Taurus now?"

Peter chuckled. "The Taurus might not look sporty but I've clocked some pretty mean speeds." Neal was about to tease him about it when he added, "All in the name of pursuing fugitives, of course."

"A likely story. How many speeding tickets did you get in college?"

"You think I'd tell you? Not in this lifetime, kid. You'd just spread it around the entire office." Neal's complaints, however, must have made an impact since Peter made a concession. He inserted a CD of Foreigner into the player. Neal checked the jacket. The original album had been released in 1978. Neal hadn't been born yet, but at least Peter was getting closer.

For the past several miles they'd skirted a forest. It had been a rainy spring, and Neal could see the sheen of standing water through the trees.

As they rolled into Buttonwood, "Double Vision" was playing. The song was about going from one extreme to another, and Buttonwood was about as unlike New York City as you could get. "El would love this place," Peter remarked as he glanced down Main Street. "The antique shops, the Victorian architecture—rural America at its best."

"Mozzie and Janet are staying at the Cranberry Hollow Inn. Make a left two blocks ahead onto Tulip Lane."

"Tulip Lane?" Peter grinned. "Mozzie must have chosen the inn because of its location."

The inn was easy to spot at the end of the block. A Victorian-era wood frame house painted in lilac with fuchsia shutters—what could be more romantic? The inn was set among large maple trees with hand-carved bird feeders dangling from the branches. Adirondack wood chairs were scattered on the lawn.

Peter wheeled the car onto the gravel parking lot next to the inn. As they walked to the inn, Peter paused at one of them, running his hand along the hood. "Now this is something you don't get to see very often."

Neal paused to look at it. Old black gas-guzzler. Muddy wheels. Not very impressive. "I guess if you're into clunkers, it's all right."

Peter rolled his eyes with frustration. "For one of the smartest guys I know, your ignorance in certain areas is appalling. This is one of the classic muscle cars. An Impala—mid to late '60s I'd guess."

Neal shrugged. "If you say so. I don't expect El would feel the same way. Does it even have A/C?"

They walked up the brick path and into the inn. "Watch out for lace doilies," Neal muttered to Peter. "We're entering Miss Marple land." The main room—they probably called it the parlor—was just as he expected. Chintz fabrics and bric-a-brac everywhere. He noted with satisfaction the lace doilies on the end tables.

Janet was sitting at a card table next to a bay window. Her short, spiky hair seemed more than normally frazzled. She was talking with two men, both young. The taller one looked to be about Neal's age. Neal wore his hair on the long side but compared to this guy, Neal had a buzz cut. The other, at first glance, had an eerie resemblance to Henry, but his cousin wouldn't have been caught dead in those clothes. Both of the men were wearing cheap suits with ties which appeared to have been purchased at a garage sale.

When Janet saw them walk in, she stood up and waved them over. The men got up with her. "I hadn't expected other FBI agents to show up," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't take this seriously. It was such a relief to talk with Agents Jake and . . ." She stopped to glance up at the taller one.

"Elwood, ma'am," the taller one said.

"We're with the FBI, here to investigate some strange occurrences which have been reported in the area," the shorter one—Agent Jake— explained. They both flashed their IDs. Neal, suppressing his grin, put a warning hand on Peter's arm.

"Are you really with the FBI?" Neal asked, making saucer eyes. "I've never met a G-Man before. Could I take another look at your IDs?"

"Sure, I guess," Agent Jake muttered, handing it to him.

"Do you carry a gun, too?" Janet shot him a puzzled look through her large turquoise-framed glasses. Neal gave her a quick wink when they weren't looking at him.

"Yeah, so?"

"And what branch of the Bureau are you with, X-Files?" Peter demanded, not able to restrain himself any longer. "Because I'm Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI and this is what a real ID looks like."

"And I'm Neal Caffrey, FBI consultant, and in my expert opinion, you should go back to whoever made these IDs and demand your money back. Definitely an inferior product. Notice how the laminate is curling up and some of the colors are bleeding together." Neal clucked his tongue in disapproval.

Agents Jake and Elwood might be wearing the suits, but Peter Burke was the Enforcer. Despite his jeans and flannel shirt, he froze the two of them with his icy glare. "Tell me why I shouldn't arrest you for impersonating federal agents?"

Surprisingly, Janet spoke up to defend them. "They really were quite sympathetic."

Peter wasn't persuaded. He looked like he wanted to slap them in irons. "Start by giving me your names, your real names this time."

Agent Jake identified himself as Dean and claimed the other was his brother Sam. Neal privately had doubts those were their real names. They didn't even make an attempt to invent last names. Amateurs. Peter must be itching to run their fingerprints.

"Shouldn't you see Mozzie before going any further?" Janet pleaded. "He's in the TV lounge."

Peter was reluctant to leave the two fake FBI agents alone and remained behind to supervise them. "Unlike you two bozos, my gun's legal issue."

Sam appeared to the more accommodating of the two. "You should at least give us a chance to explain, and then we'll go along with whatever you decide."

Right. By the cocky look on Dean's face, he was just biding his time to make a run for it. What Neal couldn't figure out, though, was what angle they were playing. It was hard to see how they'd gain anything by investigating a town of dorks. He postponed solving that puzzle till after he checked on Mozzie.

The cause of Neal's road trip was sitting in the lounge along with several other men, ranging in age from their twenties to a man in his eighties. They were all gazing with rapt attention at the TV. Mozzie, the man who liked to expound on the necessity of multiple rabbit holes for escape routes, was now snickering at the antics of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.

Neal tried to pry his attention away from the cartoon. "Hey, Mozz, you feeling okay?"

"Of course. You wanna watch too? There's room." Mozzie patted the cushion on the couch next to him and drew Neal down. He didn't seem at all surprised that Neal was there.

"How about joining us in the other room so we can talk without disturbing the others?"

"And miss the ending? I couldn't do that. Come back later, maybe tomorrow. Or Sunday. Yes, Sunday, I may be free."

"You see what I mean," Janet whispered to Neal. "This isn't normal."

"No, something's definitely loony, and I'm not talking about the cartoon."

After several minutes of fruitless coaxing, Neal and Janet gave it up as a lost cause. When they returned to the parlor, Peter was in the midst of grilling Dean and Sam.

"We arrived here this morning," Dean said. "Read a news report about women complaining that the men in their lives were overnight turning into dorks. We were in the area and decided to stop by."

"All they were doing was asking questions," Janet added. "They didn't harm anyone."

Peter eyed her skeptically. "Forging FBI badges? Impersonating federal agents? I should call the police."

"And how will that help your friend?" Dean challenged. "We've had experience in dealing with this sort of phenomenon. Have you?"

"And just what kind of phenomenon are we talking about?" Neal asked. "What makes a person, who granted is a trifle eccentric but nonetheless brilliant, turn into a goofball?"

He was impressed at how seriously they took his question. Despite their appearance, maybe they did know something.

"We have a couple of theories," Dean said. "Only adult men are affected. The youngest we've found was a kid of eighteen. The oldest was a retired schoolteacher who was eighty-nine. The first occurrence anyone is aware of was on Monday. Before then, they were behaving normally. It was as if a dork pill had been given to them."

"What do you suspect?" Janet asked.

Dean was reluctant to answer, but Sam who'd been studying them silently, spoke up. "You're probably going to think we're nuts too, but it could be demonic possession or a witch may have cast a spell on them."

Peter snorted. "Demonic possession? Let me write that down. You're right, you are nuts."

Neal sighed and took a moment to gaze around the parlor rather than laugh in their faces. Sunlight was streaming in through the bay window. Not the right ambiance for ghost stories, and yet here were these two scruffy dudes informing them that demons were the cause of Mozzie's abnormal behavior.

The situation was getting out of hand. After Sam's comment, Peter went back on the warpath to have them arrested. Janet was wringing her hands and demanding something be done. Neal, as was typical, was the calm cool voice of reason and attempted to serve as mediator.

"Demons, witches—that's crazy talk," Peter scoffed.

"We're not that comfortable with it either," Sam admitted.

"It's not a typical spell to have so many affected simultaneously," Dean added.

"And how many demonic possessions have you dealt with?" Peter asked.

Sam shrugged. "Let's just say, many more than you have. We've been interviewing the townspeople to try to find a common thread. If you hope to have your friend return to his normal state, you better let us continue our work."

Neal turned to Janet. "When did Mozzie first exhibit symptoms?"

"We arrived here on Monday, and he was fine. We spent an idyllic couple of days, browsing through the shops and going out to the swamp to hear the spring peepers. This has been an exceptional spring for frogs. You really should take the opportunity to hear them. Black Ash Swamp is beautiful at night—the reflections of the tall cedars shimmer in the moonlight. . . ." Janet's words trailed off and she gazed out the window for a moment, a faraway expression on her face. Pulling out a notebook from her bag, she opened it to a blank page and rapidly scribbled a note, muttering, "Taupe silk, forest green leather."

Neal gave her a nudge. "Janet?"

"Oh, yes. As I said, evenings we spent at the swamp. We brought folding chairs. Mozzie had an ample supply of wine." Janet sighed. "It was heavenly. We could even see will-o'-wisps floating over the surface of the water. I know will-o'-wisps are most likely puffs of marsh gas, but that doesn't make them appear any less magical. Some of them drifted right over our heads." Janet paused to jot down a few more notes.

"Ma'am, when did Mozzie begin to change?" Sam asked.

Janet winced at being called _ma'am_. "Wednesday morning. After dinner on Tuesday, we spent the evening at the swamp and then came back to our room and, well, the spring peepers were quite an aphrodisiac, if you follow me." Sam nodded sympathetically, while Dean and Peter performed nearly identical eye rolls. "The next morning I knew something was wrong when he got up at seven and turned on the TV to _Scooby Doo_. I persuaded him with difficulty to come downstairs for breakfast but then he insisted on Froot Loops with milk."

"Lactose intolerant," Neal muttered to the others.

She sighed. "The worst part was when he found a magic decoder ring in the box and got so excited, he spilled cereal all over the table."

"That's not so idiotic," Dean said. "I had one of those decoder rings myself. It was my prize possession."

"And how old were you?" Sam asked pointedly. "Six, maybe?"

"He then arranged the Froot Loops into a picture on the tablecloth," Janet said.

"Of space aliens?" Neal asked hopefully. That would at least fit into his list of obsessions. Making a picture of Hitler clones would be more difficult, unless there were black cherry Froot Loops.

Janet considered for a moment. "I believe it was an ice cream cone. He poured milk over the Froot Loops —on the tablecloth, mind you—to make a 'milkcolor' as he called it. That made him snicker so hard he almost fell out of his chair."

Dean shook his head. "I'm done. If guys want to act like idiots, let them. I'm heading for the bar."

"I disagree," Sam said. "This could be serious. Dorks one day could mean demons the next. We can't ignore an outbreak of . . . of . . ."

"Exactly," Dean said pointedly.

"You can't give up!" Janet pleaded. "You said you'd help me."

Sam looked over at Dean. "We did say that."

"You said that, not me. Don't hang this on me."

"Let's at least spend a few more hours, check out the town, and then we'll decide."

Peter had remained quiet as he listened to their exchange, but at that, he interjected, "Oh no, you're not. No more impersonating FBI agents."

"Peter's right," Neal agreed. "We'll go with you."

Peter spun around to glare at Neal. "That's not what I had in mind. I've already crossed lines not to have them locked up."

Dean studied Peter with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "You want to flash your badges? Fine. I'll go with Mr. Law and Order. We meet back here at five. Sam, you think you can keep out of trouble with Junior Fed?"

Sam eyed Neal dubiously. "We'll hit the antique shops and bookstores."

"Good idea," Dean agreed. "Peter and I'll canvass the bars and saloons."

"That's Agent Burke to you," Peter growled as he rose.

"Whatever. You're all dicks."

Neal grinned as he watched them walk off, arguing all the while. After an afternoon with Dean, Peter would give Neal a pass for anything he did for at least a month.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Well, that was depressing." Neal got up to pour himself a mug of coffee from the coffeemaker in the parlor and gloomily resumed his seat on the chintz-covered sofa. Sam smiled in sympathy, his eyes focused on the display of his laptop.

The results of their canvassing were not encouraging. Everywhere more cases were popping up. Any man eighteen and older appeared to be at risk. They didn't find any women who'd been struck by a sudden onslaught of dorkyness, although there were a few whom Neal would have to classify as having chronic symptoms.

Neal had seen plenty of evidence of the adult male population running amok—guys painting mustaches on posters, chasing each other with fly swatters. Three elderly men staged an impromptu clown act on Main Street, oblivious to the traffic. He considered it one of his few successes for the day that he'd managed to persuade them to move their act to the sidewalk. After the clown incident, Sam's alarm over the phenomenon escalated dramatically. He urged an immediate return to the inn so he could research dorkdom on the web.

Mozzie along with the rest of the afflicted men at the inn had been corralled into the TV lounge with concerned female relatives taking turns monitoring them. Janet had gone upstairs to rest.

Neal sprawled on the sofa watching Sam work. When he wasn't hunched over his laptop, he pored over an old journal. The book appeared to have gone through several wars with many of the pages on the verge of falling out. Sam resisted Neal's attempts to learn more about the journal, but he could hardly keep Neal from sneaking a peek. Surprisingly some of it was written in Latin.

During their afternoon reconnaissance, Neal had been able to extract a few details about Sam which only served to make him more curious. He'd attended Stanford but dropped out when he was a senior. He gave up on his plans to go to law school so he could join his brother on the road. Neal hadn't been able to discover yet why Sam changed his direction, but he sensed the cause was some traumatic event.

Neal could relate. He'd run away before graduating from high school and spent a few years drifting with his cousin Henry before taking off for Europe. In 2003 in a moment of clarity he gave up on his goal to become the world's preeminent con artist and forger, and made a deal with Peter to work for the FBI. What Sam and Dean were doing with their lives was less obvious. Was it simply investigating strange phenomena? Who would do that? What would they live on? They weren't spending much on clothes, but still. . . .

"No other outbreaks in New Jersey," Sam reported. "The effect appears to be localized to Buttonwood." He paused and glanced over at Neal. "So what is it you do at the FBI?"

"I'm a white-collar crimes consultant. Advise them on cases—art thefts, frauds, forgeries. Art crimes are booming these days. What do you call your profession or is researching weird occurrences a hobby?"

Sam hesitated a moment. "You could say we're in the family business."

He didn't elaborate but Neal was interrupted from questioning him further by Dean and Peter's return.

"That's one dream machine," Peter said. "You have it purring like a kitten." Dean acknowledged the praise with a satisfied shrug. Neal was impressed. He assumed they would have been at each other's throats by now, but apparently they'd built bridges. Peter turned to Neal. "That Impala we saw? It's theirs."

So that explained it. Auto diplomacy. What was this love fest with old cars all about? If it had been an Aston Martin like James Bond drove in _Die Another Day_ , Neal would have understood. Now that was a car.

They spent several minutes reviewing what they'd learned. The earliest cases appeared on Monday morning with the most recent victims developing symptoms on Thursday. Based on the sampling they'd conducted, Neal estimated that perhaps half of the adult male population was afflicted.

"The only other item that popped out," Peter added, "was an unusually high number of will-o'-wisps this spring. Some of them have even been spotted in town. It's also been a record year for spring peepers. Some of the women claim that it's the noise of the peepers that have driven their men goofy."

"We heard that too," Neal said. "One woman played a recording, and I can see where they could be annoying, but if that were the cause, women would be affected too."

"Find anything on the web?" Dean asked Sam.

He nodded in Peter's direction. "We'll talk later."

"No you're not," Peter ordered. "If you have any ideas, we want to hear them."

"Have it your way," he said with a shrug. "To have so many afflicted, I suspect a targeted manipulation. Most likely someone's cast a spell. Sounds like a man-hater to me—a witch, Jezebel, or succubus."

Dean nodded, scratching his chin. "Some craggy hag in the swamp has targeted Buttonwood? We should search for hex bags."

"But I've never heard of hex bags being used on so many victims. And supposing for the moment there is a witch here, why would she target someone like Mozzie who just arrived in town? To me it looks like there's some other force at work."

"What about the will-o'-wisps?" Neal asked. "Could they be involved?'

"It's a strong possibility," Sam agreed. "Will-o'-wisps, or ghost lights as they're called, have been associated with malicious spirits in many cultures such as the Hitodama in Japan, but there's no record of any man-haters among them."

"You're treating these myths like they're real," Peter objected.

"Look, you asked for our opinion, and we're giving it," Dean said. "Just because you've been lucky enough not to run into demons doesn't mean they don't exist. Will-o'-wisps or spring peepers could be acting as agents of a witch or man-hating demon, but what set her off?"

Peter turned to Neal. "These guys are as fruit-loopy as Mozzie. Surely you don't believe them?"

"What other ideas do we have?" Neal challenged. "Would you rather believe that space aliens have invaded and are taking over our bodies? They're going to conquer Earth with an army of dorks. If Mozzie were only in his right mind, that's what he'd be saying."

"That's as reasonable a theory as man-hating demons," Peter countered. "What do you think, Dean?"

But Dean was in no mood to answer. He was sitting back, eyeing a chick who'd just walked in. Neal looked at her. Yeah, he could see where Dean was coming from. She had long auburn hair and was wearing a tight turquoise sweater, black leather short skirt, and black suede boots. She was hot.

Sam glanced up from his laptop. "Earth to Dean."

"Check her out, Sam. Have you interviewed her?"

"Not yet."

"Well, in the quest of thoroughness, we need to." He stood up and walked over while Neal sat back to enjoy the show. But Dean had barely started when Janet entered the parlor, seeking an update. Neal filled her in, helped by Peter. They left out the speculation on witches, but stuck to a simple description of what behavior they'd observed. Peter made a point of stressing several times how they were sticking to the facts.

Janet was discouraged but not surprised. She glanced over at Dean. "What's he doing with Chloe?"

"You know her?" Sam asked. "What can you tell us about her?" He was wise to ask. From the way Dean was smiling at her, he probably wasn't going to be sharing anything for a while.

"Her name's Chloe Bishop. She was already here when we arrived on Monday. She mainly stays in her room but I did have a chance to talk with her shortly after we arrived. She said she was a technical writer, but she also writes urban fantasies. She must be good. She's had several published."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Cecilia Hepburn in Buttonwood? Dean had been prepared to leave the men of Buttonwood to their curse, but no longer. This investigation could take several days, maybe more. Too bad their conversation was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. He was just getting started.

He returned to the table. "That's Cecilia Hepburn. I thought she looked familiar but couldn't place her."

"No, that's Chloe Bishop," Janet corrected. "I'm sure I got her name right."

"Her pen name is Cecilia Hepburn. I've read all her books about Zoe the Demon Slayer. She writes some terrific stuff."

A grin spread over Burke's face. "You read urban fantasies?"

"We stay in some pretty remote spots. The nights can get long." Not that he needed to explain himself to a fed. What did Burke do on stakeouts? Organize his wanted posters?

Sam wasn't fooled. "Did she have any useful information or did you just ask for her autograph?"

"Plainly, she's not affected. I'll get her to open up over drinks."

Janet broke in. "What am I supposed to do with Mozzie? Should I try to get him to return to New York and see a psychiatrist?" They'd succeeded in calming her down earlier, but she was back to looking more harried by the minute.

Sam shook his head. "Your friend's best hope is to stay in Buttonwood. If you take him away, he may never be cured." Sam's advice was sound. Were they smart enough to recognize it?

Neal stood up. "I'll get us checked in."

"I hope they have a room free," Janet warned. "With the jamboree tomorrow, most rooms are taken. You may have to share."

Dean wavered for a moment. He'd be closer to Chloe if they stayed at the inn. But the Winchesters living in frou-frou central? Nah, not gonna happen. "We saw a motel on our way into town that's more our style. We'll try our luck there."

Burke wasn't saying anything. He had a sour expression on his face like he'd eaten too many burritos. Dean had seen that same expression earlier. The guy needed to carry antacids around with him.

"What's bothering you?" Neal asked.

"How are we going to protect ourselves from coming down with the same symptoms?"

"Some of the men are fine," Neal pointed out. "The last case we heard of was on Thursday. The witch may have grown bored and moved on."

Dean blew that argument away. "More likely this is a warm-up act for something worse to come. Burke's right. The longer you stay in town, the more likely you are to get possessed, infected, or whatever the hell is causing this curse. We haven't discovered any way to protect you. Janet's safe, but you're not."

"What about you?" Burke demanded. "You're running the same risk."

"Trust me," Sam said, "this phenomenon is nothing compared to what we usually face."

"I can't allow it," Burke said, shaking his head. "We should call in the CDC, the EPA. Maybe there's something in the water or a contagion—"

"That affects only adult men?" Dean didn't bother hiding his impatience. "Get real. You two should leave now. Janet has your contact information. She can call you when it's safe to return. Let us do our job."

"I'm not going to abandon my friend," Neal protested.

"You don't know how to fight these things," Sam argued. "We do."

"And what makes you think you can fight them?" Burke had put his hands on his hips and was giving them a no-nonsense look which might work with his agents, but not with John Winchester's sons.

"Because of the river of crap we fight every day," Dean said, glaring right back at him. "We deal with demons that would send you screaming to the nuthouse. The men are harmless now, but things could quickly turn ugly. You should get out while you can."

He thought that would be an end of it. Dean didn't blame them for wanting to stay around to help their friend, but they were out of their league. Burke looked like he could take care of himself. But his consultant? Neal might be able to spot a forgery, but against a witch or demon he'd just be another innocent they'd have to protect.

And Dean wasn't exaggerating the risk they were running. What first seemed like a joke was giving him a bad feeling. For any curse to affect so many people, the demon causing it had to be a powerful one. And those missing person reports Sam had found continued to be an itch that wouldn't go away. Could there be a connection?

The two feds didn't back down though. Sam's attempts to talk them out of it simply made them more determined to stay. Neal refused to leave his friend. And Burke? He was probably staying because he didn't trust them. Fine. The Winchesters had made truces with cops before. They never lasted for long, but having a couple of temporary allies wasn't a bad thing.

Burke could look into the missing person reports. He'd have an easier time getting the local cops to open up. Hard to see how Neal would be good for much, but he could help Janet babysit his weird friend.

Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was more engaged than he'd been in a long time and apparently enjoyed working with Neal. So, it was settled. They'd face the dorks of Buttonwood together.

 

* * *

_**Notes** : Thanks for reading! I hope you'll join me next Wednesday for Chapter 2: The Nocnitsa. Events are about to take an ominous turn as Dean's suspicions prove correct._

_Many thanks to the awesome Penna Nomen for providing outstanding beta services. She turned me onto Supernatural in the first place, and I'm dedicating this series to her. We've been tossing plot bunnies back and forth for months. The character of Chloe is very much a collaborative effort and she also had several great suggestions for this chapter. Penna is acting as co-DJ and chief muse for the series. The music referred to in this chapter as well as photos of the cast members and other visuals are pinned to the Whispers in the Night board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at[ www.pinterest.com/caffreycon ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon) where both Penna and I pin illustrations for our stories._

_Whispers in the Night is the first story in a fusion series of the Caffrey Conversation AU with Supernatural. The series is called Crossed Lines. Peter Burke crossed the line once already to recruit con artist Neal Caffrey to work at the FBI. To work with the Winchester brothers he'll have to do the same. Similarly Dean and Sam will have to let Neal and Peter into their world if they want to succeed._

_You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and Crossed Lines on our blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/). We also have summaries for all the Caffrey Conversation stories on the blog. This week I wrote about the dynamic between Neal, Peter and the Winchester brothers in a post called "Crossing Lines."  Penna's post this week is about Satchmo and Bugsy: "Playfulness and Puppies amidst the Angst."_

_If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur._

_Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas._


	2. The Nocnitsa

**Buttonwood. April 8, 2005. Friday evening.**

"No hex bags in Mozzie's room, but did you see all the wine bottles? No wonder the guy's acting weird. What does honey wine taste like, anyway?" Dean was sprawled on his bed in their motel room while Sam finished changing. He had Sam's laptop in front of him and was looking up Chloe online. She had a website under her pen name of Cecilia Hepburn. That chick had an active imagination. The sex scenes she wrote for her heroine Zoe and her heartthrob Ravensword were—

"Researching Jezebel wannabes?" Sam asked, walking into the room as he dried his hair with a towel.

Dean quickly closed the browser. "What took you so long? We're going to the local roadhouse, not the prom. By the way, did you see the clowns on Main Street?"

Sam turned away, muttering.

"You did see those clowns! Is that why you're taking so long? You're not still afraid of clowns, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

"Yeah, right." Dean grinned. "Don't you worry, little brother. I'll protect you from the big bad Chuckles out there."

Sam sighed. "Hadn't you already interviewed everyone at the roadhouse?"

"It'll be a different crowd at night. Good bar. Pool table. A poker game was going on while we were there. Our cash is still on the low side. With all the saps around, easy money."

Sam's worry wrinkles exploded. "Taking advantage of men afflicted by a curse doesn't sound very ethical."

"They owe us. Here we are working our butts off to rescue them, and what thanks do we get?"

"When do we ever get thanks?"

"If you're so worried about the victims, I could target Neal. He looks like an easy mark. What kind of consulting does he do anyway?"

"Art crimes, mortgage frauds, copyright infringement. He and Peter are members of the White Collar Task Force."

"A couple of wusses, in other words. Although, Burke was pretty sharp. I don't think much escapes him. Be careful around him. Neal, on the other hand—it'll be taking candy from a baby."

"Take it easy on Neal. He seems like a nice guy. Besides, he may not be that easy. He nailed our fake IDs."

"He's an art student who can spot a forgery. I'll be doing him a service by showing him what it's like in the real world."

They'd arranged to meet Burke and Dean's "Mark of the Night" at seven o'clock at the Bullfrog Roadhouse. Burke insisted they conduct any interviews together. The guy had zero trust in his fellow man. According to locals, the Bullfrog was the liveliest scene in town. Chloe looked like a girl who enjoyed a good time.

"Why do you have that idiotic smile on your face?" Sam asked, retrieving his cell phone from the dresser.

"No, I don't."

"You're thinking of Chloe, aren't you?"

"Am not."

Sam groaned. "That's why you want to stay around, isn't it?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to come here. I'm just helping out the men of Buttonwood."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The Bullfrog Roadhouse was four blocks from the inn. Peter would have driven but Neal suggested they walk over. For some unfathomable reason, Neal took it upon himself to defend Dean and Sam. "I'm just saying, you should give them a chance. They were serious when they talked about what they've faced."

Peter stifled his snort with difficulty. If Neal wanted to believe in witches and demons, so be it, but not Peter Burke. He'd stopped being gullible when he was seven. You'd think a former con man like Neal would be more circumspect. "Just be careful around them. According to the Bureau database, they've been suspected of breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, grave desecrations. . . . Need I go on?"

Lifting their fingerprints had been trivial. Peter made digital copies and ran them through the Bureau after Dean and Sam left for their motel. At least their first names were legit, and now they knew their last name was Winchester. What Peter had read did not fill him with a warm glow of confidence. If Neal hadn't pleaded to hold off because of Mozzie, he would have gone ahead and brought them in for questioning. But the hard evidence against them was scant to non-existent so he was giving them a pass for the moment.

"I've been meaning to ask you. . . . Don't you think Dean looks a lot like your cousin Henry?"

Neal paused, his hand on the roadhouse door. "I noticed it too, and Dean's attitude reminds me a little of Henry's grandfather Graham." He grinned. "Should we tell Henry he better check his family tree? He could have some relatives he doesn't know about."

Dean and Sam had already grabbed a table. When Peter saw them drinking beer, his opinion of them rose slightly. Tomorrow was soon enough to decide what to do with them. He and Neal placed their orders, Peter joining them in beer while Neal ordered a glass of wine. Peter noted with amusement Dean's look of disdain at Neal's glass.

"Dinner's on me," Neal said. "Mozzie's my friend and I appreciate your help."

Dean nodded his thanks and turned his head toward the bar. "Oh, waitress?" he called out, waving a beer bottle at her.

A short while later with their table covered in cheeseburgers, French fries, and onion rings, Dean and Sam were downright cheerful. Neal was eyeing his Portobello mushroom sandwich dubiously. Peter had no sympathy for him. Anyone who chances Portobello mushrooms at a roadhouse deserves what he gets.

Dean was particularly friendly, even feigning an interest in Neal's art. What scam was he trying to pull? Neal played along, milking the art student routine for all he was worth. Peter relaxed to enjoy the show and see what Dean was up to. Sam appeared to be mildly embarrassed at his brother's actions and spent his time researching will-o'-wisps on his laptop. At least he remembered why they were there.

"Ever shoot any pool, Neal?" Dean asked.

"With a full-time job and all my coursework, there's not much time left," Neal said, eyeing the pool table regretfully. "Would you like to have a game? I have to apologize in advance. I'm sure I'm not up to your level."

"Nonsense. I'm not very good either." Sam clearing his throat at that last remark did nothing to distract Dean from his scam. "I tell you what. Let's make it fun with a friendly wager."

"Sure thing," Neal agreed with an innocent grin and the two of them took off for a pool table.

"Don't worry," Sam said. "If Dean takes him for very much, I'll insist he return his money."

"Thanks, but I'm not concerned. Would you like to place a small bet on who comes out ahead? Loser buys the next round of drinks?"

"You're on," Sam agreed.

Peter and Sam took their drinks and walked over to the pool table to watch the game. The Bullfrog had a digital jukebox along with a karaoke machine and someone had loaded "Green Onions" on it. The music fit the pool game. Several other customers also gathered around. Neal was wearing his trademark easy smile as he racked the balls. Peter chuckled. Dean was in for a world of hurt.

When the dust cleared and the sound of sticks striking balls no longer resounded through the roadhouse, Neal and Peter sat back to enjoy their drinks provided by Sam. But Neal's margin of victory wasn't as great as Peter expected. Dean wasn't bad.

"That's the last time I challenge an art student to shoot pool," Dean said with a laugh.

Neal returned Dean his money. "I was hustling pool before you were stealing hubcaps."

Dean pocketed the cash. "For a wine-drinker, you're all right."

Peter glanced around the roadhouse. Attendance seemed light for a Friday night. There were a few guys at the bar acting goofy but then, aren't there always? Peter didn't see much to be alarmed at. A couple of kids looked like they should have been carded, but he wasn't inclined to spoil their evening out as long as they behaved themselves.

Neal had been looking bored for several minutes. Peter wasn't surprised when he asked, "You guys play poker?"

Dean hesitated for a moment. "You play poker like you shoot pool?"

Peter gave them a break. "Probably better."

"That's all right. I like a challenge. There's a free card table in the corner. You're on."

**Cranberry Hollow Inn. April 8, 2005. Friday evening.**

Still no change. Janet sighed in frustration. She'd hoped she'd notice some improvement in Mozzie's condition once Neal and Peter arrived, but, if anything, his condition had grown worse.

At the moment he and several other men were watching _Bonanza_ reruns. Janet had slipped out of the room—not that Mozzie seemed to even notice she'd left—and was having a glass of wine by herself in the parlor. She'd designed costumes for stage productions on a wide variety of subjects, but never for a Theater of the Absurd performance like this one.

Janet pulled out a sketchpad from her bag and began drawing. _Treat this as an Ionesco play_ , she told herself gloomily. _What costumes would you design?_ The thought was an intriguing one and soon she was absorbed in sketching ideas. She'd long thought about designing a costume for Mozzie. This was her chance.

"Mind if I join you?"

She looked up to see Chloe standing in front of her. "I could use the company." Janet moved a cushion aside for Chloe to sit next to her. "Would you like some wine?"

"Thanks, but I'm more of a beer drinker. I may go to the roadhouse in a little while. I need to recharge my batteries. I just finished writing the user guide for an HR product. A snoozer of an assignment but it pays the bills." She glanced over at Janet's drawings. "I envy you being able to support yourself with what you're passionate about."

"Don't you make enough from your novels to work on them full time?"

She shook her head glumly. "Maybe someday, but in the meantime I'm doomed to write about the glories of user controls." Chloe hesitated for a moment. "I saw you talking to a group of men. One of them—Dean—came over to talk with me for a few minutes. Do you know much about him?"

"Not really. I only met him today. He and his brother are in town to investigate—"

"Janet! I need your help!" Mrs. Palmer, the innkeeper, came running into the parlor. Mrs. Palmer was of ample proportions and badly in need of a makeover. Janet had thought about making a few suggestions, but at the moment the assistance she needed was not in wardrobe but in manhandling. "Mozzie's trying to tear down the curtains to make lariats."

Janet sighed and gulped down the last of her wine. Making her apologies to Chloe, she headed off to save Mrs. Palmer's curtains. Mozzie was so going to owe her for this.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

A few beers. Some poker. Dean was feeling good. He could tell Sam was getting antsy to get back to his research. He kept telling the dude to lighten up. Neal to his credit appeared to have the same thought and had even gotten Sam to laugh some. Sam was a worry. He was taking forever to get over his girlfriend. Not that Dean was unsympathetic—watching your girl spontaneously combust and be burned to death could set any dude off his game. And the yellow-eyed demon was still giving Sam nightmares, no matter how he tried to disguise it. But just because they dealt with death and destruction on a daily basis didn't mean a guy couldn't have a little fun. Even Peter had unbent and was matching Dean with beers.

But the call Neal got from Janet put an end to the poker. Supposedly she was having a tough time controlling the little guy who was trying to perform lasso tricks and hogtie the inn's guests. Neal offered to handle it, which was fine with Dean. There was still a chance Chloe could show up. He was staying put.

Sam offered to go back with Neal. That appeared to please Peter who seemed to believe Dean bore watching. Still as long as the guy continued to buy the beer, Dean didn't mind hanging out with him.

The filly herself walked in about fifteen minutes later. She was in the same leather mini-skirt and sweater. Dean stood up, saying he needed to finish the interview. Right. Peter's eye-rolling could be as annoying as Sam's and was just as non-effective.

A few minutes later they were sitting at a corner table with their beer—chalk up another point in her favor: the chick liked beer—and Dean was happily ignoring the steely-eyed observation technique of Peter Burke.

"So how'd you wind up in a sleepy town like Buttonwood?" he asked.

"I'm a technical writer," she replied. "Zoe the Demon Slayer makes enough to keep Izzy running, but not enough for me to live on."

"Izzy?"

"That's my car. Izzy's short for Isabelle. She and I have been together for quite a while. You may have seen her—the black Mustang at the inn?"

"That's your car?" Dean's grin broadened. The gods were smiling on him. "I'd parked Baby next to her. The '67 Impala. Yep, Baby and I have racked up quite a few adventures."

Chloe sat back and gave him an admiring look. "I bet you have. Izzy and I are also road warriors. I freelance so can pick my jobs. I figure if I have to do technical writing, at least I can write in a charming atmosphere so I usually stop at country inns."

"My brother and I freelance too."

"What kind of work?"

"It's a family-run business. We're investigators."

"So you're a private detective, sort of a traveling Sam Spade?"

"Dean Spade, that's me. My brother's Sam." This was going well. Chloe was looking intrigued. Dean noticed Peter was moving among the tables, talking with customers. Good. He needed practice in his interviewing technique. Dean was going to focus on the only person he was interested in interviewing.

He liked to start with the soft touch and then gradually rev up the engine. He asked her about her stories, focusing on the love connection between Ravensword and Zoe. Her descriptions of demons were laughable, but no need to point that out. He'd certainly been able to overlook her wild fantasies in favor of the steamy parts.

They were just getting to the good stuff, when Peter showed up at their table. "Later," Dean said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

"No, now," Peter insisted. "The woman who just walked in said she saw several will-o'-wisps moving toward the roadhouse. We should check them out."

"I've heard how abundant they are this season," Chloe said, "but I haven't had a chance to see them. Let's go!"

Dean shrugged. Hey, if Chloe were interested, he could go along. When they walked outside, a light ground fog had formed. Kinda spooky. Chloe might feel the need for a protector.

"There's one—by that maple tree," said Peter, pointing in its direction.

Sure enough, a soccer ball-sized globe of pale blue gas was hovering next to the tree about fifteen feet away. Glancing around, Dean saw a couple of others further in the distance. If he'd been by himself, he would have gone to Baby, gotten out his gun and shot it with salt, but he couldn't risk it with the others present.

"You better go inside," he muttered to Chloe. "It may be hostile."

She withered him with a karate-chop of eye-rolling. "Like I'm supposed to be scared of a blue bubble? Please. This is Zoe the Demon Slayer you're talking to."

 _Amateurs_ , Dean grumbled to himself. Where was Sam when he needed him? Still, powder-blue balls of swamp gas barely registered on the Dean threat-meter.

"It's approaching," Peter warned in a low voice. He drew his weapon. Dean noticed Chloe raising her eyebrows at that. Damn. He knew, he should have gotten out his shotgun. "Just a precaution," Peter added.

The will-o'-wisp floated closer and closer. . . .

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"It passed right over our heads and then disappeared over the roof of the roadhouse. Neal, it was the weirdest thing. At one point, it dipped down so low I thought it was going to smack me in the face."

When Peter returned to the inn, Neal was having a nightcap in the parlor. After his struggles with Mozzie, he'd earned it. The will-o'-wisps must have been put on quite a show. Peter was unusually animated as he talked about them. Perhaps a few too many beers?

"We stayed outside a while longer but after that cluster of three, didn't spot any others. Dean was still hitting on Chloe, and I headed back here. How'd it go with Mozzie?"

"He finally wore himself out. I helped Janet get him to bed. Had to read a bedtime story to get him to sleep." Neal sighed deeply at the depths his friend had sunk to. "Fortunately Janet had borrowed several books from the inn's library. _A Campfire for Cowboy Billy_ is his favorite."

Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll figure this out and get him the help he needs." Peter hesitated for a minute. "You don't happen to know of any mental disorders in his family?"

Neal shook his head. "He was an orphan."

"Right." Peter snickered.

Neal looked at him, startled. "There's nothing funny about him being an orphan."

"You're right. I was thinking of Cowboy Billy. Sorry."

Neal shook his head, frustrated. Had Mozzie been afflicted with a syndrome for which there was no cure? Peter could be a little more sympathetic to his plight.

**Cranberry Hollow Inn. April 9, 2005. Saturday morning.**

 "Ow! Stop that!"

Neal rubbed the side of his head and rolled over to view the alarm clock. "Five o'clock in the morning and you want a pillow fight? Seriously?" He turned on the bedside lamp. Peter was standing on top of his bed and preparing to hurl yet another pillow at him. "Don't you dare toss that!"

"Party Pooper!" He scooped up the pillows and began throwing them at a picture on the wall as if they were basketballs. As if that weren't bad enough, he started a running commentary on his basketball expertise, giggling all the while.

Peter never giggled, and Neal couldn't remember a single instance of _party pooper_ ever being part of his vocabulary. He sat up, rested his head on his propped-up elbows, and studied Peter with dismay. Had he caught the dork-plague?

Neal got out of bed and confiscated Peter's pillows. Peter took that to mean he wanted to play a game of keep-away and began wrestling him for the pillows. Finally in desperation, Neal wheedled, "How about watching some cartoons? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"The Road Runner?" Peter said eagerly, his eyes grown wide. "And Wile E. Coyote?"

"Whatever you'd like." He had no idea what might be on, but figured it probably didn't matter. He knew Cartoon Network was a channel they could get in their rooms. Janet had already mentioned what a lifesaver it was.

He'd barely settled Peter in front of the TV, when Sam called his cell phone. "Neal, I've got a situation here."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Dean's been a jerk, an ass, and yeah, sometimes kind of a dork, but never like this." Wincing, Sam poked the scrambled eggs around his plate.

When Sam called earlier in the morning, Neal told him to come over and bring Dean with him. Fortunately Dean was somewhat tractable. Now Peter and Dean were with Mozzie in the TV lounge while Neal, Sam, and Janet had breakfast in the dining room.

Neal assessed the situation as he smeared butter on a hot blueberry muffin. Should he call Peter's wife? How in the world would he explain it to El?

"When Dean returned last night, he took a shower," Sam said. "He seemed in good spirits, but I didn't think anything about it."

"Anything else?"

"He was singing 'Cecilia' in the shower. Come to think of it, that was weird. Dean never sings Simon and Garfunkel songs." Sam grinned at the memory. "I should have recorded him. I was surprised he knew the words. He was blasting them out so loud I thought we'd get complaints at the racket."

"Cecilia … That sounds familiar." Janet considered for moment then broke into a smile. "He was singing about Chloe! She publishes her books as Cecilia Hepburn."

Sam groaned. "Now it makes sense. Dean was hoping to meet up with her last night." Sam nodded toward the dining room doors. "And look who walked in." Chloe stood at the entrance, waiting to be seated.

Neal got up and invited her to join them for breakfast.

Chloe looked half-asleep. She was wearing an oversized sweater over tight jeans and still had bed hair. "I don't often get up in time for breakfast. I write at night and usually don't get to bed till three or four o'clock. Why are all those grown men watching cartoons? Doesn't anyone think that's weird?"

"You don't know?" Janet exclaimed. "How could you not be aware of what's going on?"

Chloe shrugged. "When I go on a writing binge, I tune out the rest of the world. Yesterday afternoon I finally finished the user guide I was writing." She looked at them with sleepy hazel eyes. "Did I miss something?"

Janet shook her head in frustration. "Oh, nothing much. The men in the town are all turning to dorks, but maybe that means nothing to you?"

Neal put a hand on Janet's arm. "Easy," he murmured. "We're going to get to the bottom of this."

Chloe looked more baffled than ever as Sam started in with his soft-spoken questioning. Neal had learned to admire his technique the day before. Sam had a way of soothing people that Neal, as a fellow con artist, could appreciate.

"Did you see Dean last night?" he asked.

She nodded. "He was at the roadhouse. We had a few drinks, then went outside to look at the will-o'-wisps." She turned to Neal. "Your friend Peter was with us, too. They told me townspeople have been reporting them for the past week, but this was my first time to see them. One of them hovered right over our heads."

"Did you see if it touched Dean or Peter?" Sam asked.

Chloe considered for a moment. "Maybe? Have you seen them? It's not like they're solid globes but more a swirling mass of gas. It's certainly possible some of the gas grazed their heads."

Sam sat back, shaking his head. "I don't like it."

Chloe was looking increasingly perplexed so Neal plunged in. "The town's in the grips of an epidemic where men are turning into dorks."

She started to laugh but her smile vanished when she noticed how serious the three of them were. She turned to Janet. "So you weren't joking?"

Janet huffed in exasperation. "I hope you don't think I'd normally date a man who spends his days watching cartoons and making messes with his Froot Loops."

Chloe looked wide-eyed at them. "But how is this possible?"

Sam hesitated. "You're probably not going to believe this either, but I suspect some sort of spell. There are spirits who are known to haunt the swamps such as Boginiki and Nocnitsas. European folklore has many legends about will-o'-wisps."

"You're beginning to sound like my stories, but what I write is fiction."

He shook his head. "Demons aren't just something in stories—they're real."

As Sam explained what they'd discovered, Chloe listened intently, her face growing pale. "Oh no. Surely I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" Neal demanded.

She didn't reply. Biting her lower lip, she turned her head to view the TV lounge. By this time, all seats were taken.

"If you know anything, you have to tell us," Janet pleaded.

"I don't see how I could have caused it."

"Just let us know what you did," Sam urged.

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Last Sunday evening on my way in to town, I stopped off at the swamp. You need to understand, I'd had a hard week. The project manager for my last job was a sexist pig—criticized my work in the most offensive terms—I was outraged, and, well, as a freelancer, I really didn't have any way to protest. I was too far along in the job to quit."

Sam was making notes. "Give us every detail."

"It was about seven at night. I remember I was singing 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' to try to boost my spirits, but I was still in a blue funk, so . . ." Chloe paused and cleared her throat. "You should know that I'm researching an upcoming novel which will feature witches. The internet is an amazing resource for spells and incantations, and I like to make my stories as believable as possible."

Sam sighed. "You cast a spell."

She nodded. "I was ticked off at the bonehead for the way he treated me, and I knew I needed to clear my mind. On a lark, I decided to cast a spell on him, thinking that would exorcise my frustration. After all, spells don't actually work. It was harmless, right?" She looked pleadingly at them and although Neal was inclined to agree with her, he was curious to hear what she'd done. Sam, on the other hand, was looking grim.

"I'd read how to cast a spell on the web. I stopped at a pull-off—it was in the middle of the swamp, about five miles from Buttonwood. I drew a circle in the dirt on the shoulder of the road, lit a candle, and sprinkled some althea root around. Althea is supposed to aid psychic powers."

"You carry althea root in your car?" Janet asked incredulously.

"I like to be thorough," she said defensively. "My heroine Zoe is an herbalist. She uses herbs and mushrooms rather than weapons to fight the supernatural forces she encounters. She prefers to collect plants in the wild because they're more potent. I collect samples as I drive around the country." She paused to scan them. "If I'm going to describe something's fragrance, it only makes sense to have smelled it first."

"I know exactly what you mean," Janet chimed in. "Many of my best designs come from wildlife I've observed in their natural habitats."

Chloe's face brightened. "You understand! I found a stand of skunk cabbage on the eastern edge of the swamp. The experience was so powerful, it was almost mystical. I had to stop and jot down notes."

"That's why I always carry a sketchbook in the field—"

Sam broke in. "Getting back to the present situation"—Janet and Chloe froze with almost identical guilty looks on their faces—"What was the spell you used?"

"Oh, just your standard string of Latin words," she said sheepishly. "I have it in my car if you really want to know. I added a sentence—used an online English-Latin dictionary for help—where I said words to the effect of:  If any spirit hears my plea, turn Arne Maskonin into a dork for me." She looked at Sam hesitantly. "Harmless stuff, right?"

"I need to hear the exact words," Sam said firmly.

"I think I said: _D_ _i quis_ _audierit verba mea spiritum placito verto_ _Arne Mask_ _onin_ _in inepte pro me_."

Sam exhaled slowly. "Say it again." After she'd repeated it, he said, "Your Latin accent is atrocious."

"Well, jeez, I don't claim to be a Latin scholar."

"Your Arne Maskonin sounds suspiciously like _omni masculine_ to me."

"So?"

" _Omni masculine_ just happens to mean all men." Sam grimaced. "I think your plea got answered."

"Help!" The inn clerk raced into the dining room. "There's a food fight in the TV lounge. The popcorn's flying everywhere!"

Neal groaned. "I'm on it."

Janet got up to join him, admonishing Sam and Chloe, "I'm counting on you. Find us a solution, _fast_."

After the mess in the lounge was cleaned up, all the non-affected guests worked up a monitoring schedule. An abject Chloe volunteered to help with Dean. That was fortunate. She seemed to be the only one Dean would respond to.

Dean's practical jokes were the hardest to take. A well-meaning wife had supplied the men with a whoopee cushion, thinking it would amuse them. Dean and Mozzie thought it was so hilarious that soon the sounds of farts were a constant affliction of the inn.

The much ballyhooed Peeper Jamboree was scheduled for Saturday. The event was a dud as far as Neal was concerned. A few green plastic frogs for sale. Food booths offered frog cookies, frog pies, frog cupcakes, frog sandwiches. Perhaps it was for the best that Mozzie wasn't himself or he would have been horrified by all the green food coloring.

But the jamboree proved to be a blessing. It made it easier to keep the men entertained. Various contests had been set up along Main Street. A game called Frog Flip where the goal was to toss a rubber ball and hit a plywood frog on his lily pad was particularly productive. Sam was excused to work on his research, although he occasionally dropped in to check on Dean's condition and take photos.

In the afternoon, Janet and Chloe corralled Peter, Dean, and Mozzie in the library for story hour. Neal returned to the inn to check on Sam's progress, stopping to pick up frog cupcakes for both of them and a double espresso for himself.

"Tell me you found something . . . anything," Neal pleaded, handing him a cupcake.

Sam peeled back the paper on the green confection. "Maybe. The most promising is a Nocnitsa."

"You'd mentioned that earlier. What exactly is it?"

"Nocnitsas are Slavic nightmare spirits who live in swamps. They don't generally cause bodily harm but are malicious pranksters."

"That sounds right." Neal hadn't heard of anyone so far being injured.

"I found reports of a Nocnitsa in the Alepu swamp of Bulgaria that had many of the characteristics of a witch. The spirit used will-o'-wisps to cast spells on the local townspeople, causing them to cast off their clothes and go around naked."

"How'd they remove the spell, or is the town still a nudist colony?"

"The person who'd contacted the Nocnitsa was identified. Sounds like a similar situation to Chloe—a witch wannabe. The woman in Bulgaria had gotten ticked off by some do-gooder and was seeking revenge. She tried to release the spell, but wasn't able to. Finally a hunter in Poland heard about it and ganked it."

"Hunter?"

Sam hesitated. "Someone like Dean and me. We hunt things."

"Things? Could you be a little more specific?"

He cleared his throat. "Demons, vampires, witches. . . ." He sat back, clearly expecting Neal to mock him, but after the events of the past day, Neal wasn't in a laughing mood. He wasn't ready to say he believed in actual, real-life demons, but malicious will-o'-wisps? Maybe.

"So if we're dealing with a Nocnitsa, how do we . . . umm, gank it?"

"The hunter said he discovered iron bullets work. That makes sense. They were effective against a Shtriga."

"Shtriga?"

"You don't wanna know. I've given you enough to digest for a day. We have some iron bullets in our car. I'll get the directions from Chloe and go out this evening."

"I'll go with you."

Sam shook his head. "Too dangerous, sorry. I appreciate the offer but a paintbrush won't be much help."

"I have a few other talents. Marksmanship is one of them. You'll need two people to con this Nocnitsa. One to be the mark, the other to take it down."

Sam took a while to convince but Neal was eventually able to wear him down. Their skills matched up well. Sam knew what to look for and Neal was an expert at dodging out of sight. After Neal gave a small demonstration by challenging Sam to tail him on the streets of Buttonwood, Sam accepted his help readily.

They decided to wait until eight o'clock to go to the swamp in the hopes that by then the will-o'-wisps would have dispersed into town to seek more victims. Chloe provided exact directions to the pull-off where she'd cast the spell. She and Janet would supervise Mozzie, Peter and Dean. Personally, Neal thought the women had the harder challenge.

**Black Ash Swamp. April 9, 2005. Saturday evening.**

"So what does a Nocnitsa look like anyway?" Sam had been annoyingly vague up to now.

They'd arrived at Chloe's pull-off an hour earlier. Simply riding in the Impala had been an adventure. The well-worn upholstery and interior were colored with curious stains that Neal suspected he didn't want to know the origin of. Sam had a shotgun beside him, supposedly loaded with iron bullets. He'd retrieved it from the trunk once Neal was seated into the car. Apparently he was reluctant for Neal to see the inside of the trunk. Big mistake. Neal vowed to explore it at the first opportunity. The Bureau was counting on him. They certainly couldn't rely on Peter. Yep, it was all on him.

"The hunter who ganked it said that from a distance it was like looking at a tall pillar of light," Sam said. "She could move with lightning-fast speed. It was only when she was a few feet away that he saw the features of her face which were of a hag— _night hag_ is what some call a Nocnitsa. Her face resembled a skull and was distorted with rage. The way he described it reminded me of those Nazi faces at the end of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_."

"That's a depressing thought."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, but not that unusual for us."

Neal gazed out over the swamp. They were staying in the car to protect themselves from any wayward will-o'-wisps, but so far had only seen a couple at a distance. There was a full moon and the light mingled with the mist rising off the swamp to cast broken reflections on the surface of the water. Trees loomed tall, their branches covered with emerging buds. Would the Nocnitsa be hidden in the trees or skim the surface of the water? The infamous spring peepers were going full throttle, their loud _peeps_ reverberating in a continuous cacophony through the swamp.

 "You and Dean must do a lot of demon stakeouts?"

Sam nodded. "You probably have your share of stakeouts as well."

"Yeah. I can smell the aroma of deviled ham wafting up now."

Sam turned to stare at him. "What?"

"That's Peter's favorite sandwich. The smell in a closed car is enough to make you swear off ever eating ham again," Neal added with a shudder.

"With me, it's Dean's triple-bacon cheeseburgers." Sam heaved a sigh. "Would it kill him to have a salad just once in a while?"

"I understand where you're coming from. I tried once to coax Peter into eating a quinoa wrap. He acted as if I wanted to poison him." Neal paused to study his new stakeout buddy. "So how'd a guy like you wind up on demon patrol?"

"I kinda fell into it. It wasn't my intention. Life happened . . . Dean needed me. . . ." He turned to Neal. "How about you? You're not like any FBI agent I've ever met."

"I drifted as a kid. Fell off the tracks more times than I can remember—"

"Hence the pool and the poker."

"Those and a few other skills best not mentioned. Peter offered me a way out—a chance to turn my life around, and work as a consultant. I'm going to grad school now. A year ago, I wouldn't have dreamed that was possible. It could happen to you too."

"Maybe, but unlikely. I've thought about leaving but the life keeps sucking me back in. My dad was a hunter. It's in my blood."

"You referred to your family business. Is that what you meant?"

"Saving people, hunting things. That pretty much describes it."

Neal mulled over Sam's words. Genetics were tricky. His father was a cop-killer. Neal hoped none of his dad's blood was influencing him. "Dean's your brother. You can't desert him."

"Yeah, even when he's a jerk . . . or a dork. Usually he's a jerk. Too protective. Acts like I'll fall apart unless he's there to save me. Now, the table's turned, and I'm going to save him."

"Peter's the same way. Always stewing about what trouble I'm in when I'm perfectly capable of extricating myself from any situation without a scratch. He's a worrywart by nature. I keep telling him to chill, but he never listens."

"This will be a good lesson for them."

"Agreed. Wonder what they're doing now."

Sam grinned. "I hope Dean's not disgracing himself too badly, though it'd be fun to watch."

"I told Janet to get photos."

**Bullfrog Roadhouse. Saturday evening.**

As Janet surveyed the roadhouse and watched the men, it was hard not to be discouraged. Someone had put "Lucille" by Kenny Rogers on the jukebox, and a couple of men were dancing an impromptu waltz, wearing pinafores over their jeans. At least Mozzie, Peter, and Dean were properly attired. But if Neal and Sam hadn't helped, that wouldn't have been the case. "The Three Amigos" as she now called them were sitting at a table next to her and Chloe playing _Go Fish_. Janet gave herself a pat on the back for managing to snap up the last set of cards at the local toy store.

Chloe was in need of a morale boost. Since discovering she'd been the likely cause of the affliction, she'd been inconsolable. "Shouldn't they be forced to post warning labels on witchcraft websites?" she said, eyeing the amigos gloomily.

"I've been a champion of sisters striking out on their own and taking charge of their own destiny, but I have to confess you're making me reassess. Could it be that we're becoming too powerful?"

Chloe groaned and sank her head into her folded arms. "To think I did this to Ravensword." Her voice came out a muffled wail.

"Ravensword? Who's he?"

"The love interest in my stories. I've been writing about the steamy romance going on between him and my main character Zoe for the past several stories."

"I'm still not following you."

Chloe raised her head dejectedly and looked over at Dean. "Oh, Ravensword … " She turned to Janet. "You need to understand, I lead a single life. On the road a lot, traveling between jobs. I'm not lonely," she quickly added. "I enjoy talking with the locals and they provide inspiration for some of the characters in my books. When I'm driving, I often plan plots and dialogues. I carry images of what my characters look like in my head and talk to them like they're real people."

"I feel the same way about some of my designs," Janet admitted, "especially the insect-inspired costumes. Don't tell anyone but sometimes I give them names and talk to them. Gosh, we must be having a moment. I've never mentioned that to anyone."

"Don't forget, you promised to send me a catalog from your latest exhibition. Anyway, when I met Dean, I was so flummoxed, I could hardly talk. He's Ravensword! Or at least the way I picture Ravensword. And then when I heard about his work … "

Janet nodded and patted Chloe's arm. "The pheromones were flying between the two of you. I could tell. I'm very sensitive to pheromones."

"Exactly. Now look at him." Chloe groaned again and glugged her beer.

Janet regarded the amigos. They'd grown bored with their card game. Dean appeared to be the ringleader. He leaned over to whisper something to Mozzie and Peter who both started snickering. Janet got up to find out what they were concocting.

Five minutes later the amigos were standing in the front of the jukebox, belting out "Rawhide" to the crowd. Janet returned to the table, informing Chloe, "Among the options I was given this seemed the most harmless." She took out her camera from her bag to take more photos.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal eyed the shotgun Sam had given him skeptically. "Salt cartridges? You're sure this is going to work?"

Sam studied Neal for a moment. Despite his claims of being a crack shot, he certainly didn't look it. Going off to battle a Nocnitsa with an untested white collar consultant was not his idea of the best plan, and at the moment his substitute partner needed some encouragement. "Salt repels ghosts and demons. It should work against malicious will-o'-wisps too. When we spot the Nocnitsa, we're going to have to leave the car to pursue her. The salt should ward off any will-o'-wisps in the area."

"Any other condiments I should know about in case we meet other demons later on?" Neal asked, grinning. That was the problem with amateurs. They never took the work seriously until it was too late.

"Sulfur. You find any sulfur lying around, that's an indicator for demons."

"So if I smell rotten eggs, I need to call Sam and Dean, the Demonbusters?"

"That's—"

"There she is!" Neal interrupted, sitting upright and pointing excitedly south into the swamp.

Sam scanned the swamp for a ghostly pillar of light. "Where?"

"Look through those tall cedars. She must be about two hundred yards away. I see some will-o'-wisps around her."

Sam peered into the swamp and saw what he was talking about. He'd have to give Neal marks for sharp eyesight. Maybe he could shoot after all. "Remember to stick to the plan. We'll sneak as close as possible."

"I'll take out the will-o'-wisps and play the fox to distract them."

No will-o'-wisps around to contend with when they got out of the car. The full moon gave them some visibility but it was slow going. Neal was in the lead as they worked their way through the underbrush. The swamp consisted of shallow basins of water, bordered by shrubby undergrowth and tall trees. They kept to the edge of the water, darting from tree to tree and restricting their communications to hand signals.

Neal's movements were impressive—he seemed to skim over the muck. In comparison, the sloshing of Sam's boots in the muddy ground sounded alarmingly loud. But they were lucky. The frogs were so noisy, they tended to block everything else out.

As they drew closer, Sam got a better feel for the Nocnitsa. She was tall, maybe fifteen feet, a spectral vision that appeared to float over the surface of the water. Surrounding her like satellites were five will-o'-wisps. Were they her bodyguards? They seemed unaware of his and Neal's presence.

When they were about a hundred feet away, Sam felt he was close enough to get a shot. The next time Neal looked back at him, he alerted him. Neal stopped and flattened himself against a tree as Sam aimed.

But just as he started to squeeze the trigger, he felt something pressing on his boot. Glancing down, he let out a yelp. The largest snake he'd ever seen in his life crawling up his leg! He must have jumped two feet into the air as he tried to shake it off. And the curses that came out of his mouth were not the stealth mode he was aiming for.

Neal spun around to see what the commotion was about. Flailing in the mud, Sam tripped on a tree root and fell with a loud splash into the water. He groaned. Could this get any worse?

Wrong question.

The Nocnitsa changed her direction and charged their way. Neal was firing at the will-o'-wisps which were zooming in with alarming speed. How could little balls of gas look so threatening? These ones did. Sam quickly staggered up. The salt didn't appear to damage the will-o'-wisps, but Neal was making a target of himself, darting into the open and firing off shots. The Nocnitsa swerved and headed straight for Neal. Sam brought up his shotgun, aimed carefully, and fired one, two, three times at the spirit.

The third time did the trick. The Nocnitsa exploded, ejecting fiery blobs of gas as it disintegrated. Neal stopped in his tracks and stared, his jaw dropping, as a dense column of charcoal-black smoke rose from the column and vanished into the moonlit sky. The will-o'-wisps scattered and retreated into the swamp.

Neal slogged his way back to Sam. "You did it!"

Sam grinned in relief. "It was a team effort." He scanned the swamp but couldn't spot any will-o'-wisps. "The hunter in Bulgaria reported that once the Nocnitsa was dead, the curse was removed and the townspeople returned to normal. Let's hope it happens here too."

He pulled out his cell phone to call Dean as they trudged back to the car. Neal also took out his cell phone, but then stopped short. " _Shhh_ ," Neal whispered. "I hear something."

"Well, yeah. Ten thousand frogs."

Neal shook his head vehemently. "No, something else."

Sam paused, rotating his head to look in all directions. He lowered his voice too. "You're right. There's something else out there. Get back to the car, fast."

They began to run. Neal sprinted ahead of him and looked to his right. He called back to Sam, "Five shapes, maybe more. Look like men, but they're way too fast to be human." He was firing his gun at them, but it didn't have any effect.

"Don't wait for me! Go hide in the trees. Don't let them catch you!" Sam urged his legs to go faster, but he'd hit a muddy area and his boots were sticking in the mud. He punched the speed dial on his phone. "Vamps in the swamp. I hope to God, Dean, you're you again."

He scanned for Neal just in time to see him seized by two dark figures.

Sam lurched forward as something crashed hard into him. He frantically tore at the hands on his throat and then fell to the ground as more vamps rushed him. A boot appeared over his face and then blackness.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"How much longer do you think they'll be?" Janet asked Chloe worriedly. "They've already been gone over two hours."

"I'm more concerned about what shape they'll be in when they return," Chloe confessed. "Will they have turned into dorks too? What will we do then?"

"Sam gave me the telephone number of a friend. His name is Bobby. Sam said if the worst happened or if they didn't come back, I should call him." And not just him. If Neal and Sam came back in the same condition, she'd have to call El. How could she explain to Peter's wife that Peter had spent the past fifteen minutes singing "Happy Trails" with Mozzie and Dean, with each stanza growing more lachrymose? All the other men in the bar were joining in. It was enough to turn her off men permanently. What had happened to the witty, charming, and utterly irresistible bon vivant who had won her heart?

Janet had been trying to calm her fears by comparing Mozzie to a honey bee who'd experienced an allergic reaction to someone's perfume. Surely his pheromones were just off. But then she thought about ZomBees. Cases of ZomBees were becoming more frequent where honey bees were infected by zombie flies. They began to fly at night, hurling themselves against street lamps till they dropped dead. Would Mozzie turn into a ZomBee?

Chloe patted Janet's hand. "Don't worry. I'm sure Sam and Neal will find the Nocnitsa and reverse the spell." She looked like she was ready to cry, too.

Janet sniffed and got out a tissue out from her bag. Neal hadn't called for thirty minutes. Was that a positive sign?

"What the . . . !" Dean recoiled from Mozzie and Peter, staring at them with a mixture of horror and disgust. Only a minute ago they'd been arm in arm, singing. His look was so shocked as to be comical.

Peter and Mozzie were equally dismayed. And not just them, all the men in the roadhouse. Janet jumped up, gave Chloe a quick hug, and then raced over to Mozzie. Pandemonium erupted with all the women in the roadhouse crying, embracing, and scolding their men. Janet shoved her way through the crowd and, hanging on to Mozzie for dear life, ordered a very confused Peter and Dean to accompany her.

Chloe stood up and looked hesitant as they returned to the table. Janet cried out triumphantly, "You see, I told you Ravensword would come back to you!"

Chloe turned fire-engine red, but it was worth it to see the grin on Dean's face.

"What happened?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Do you remember much?" Chloe asked.

"I can remember the Froot Loops, the cartoons, the silly games," Mozzie said, "but none of it makes any sense."

He was not alone. Dean and Peter also remembered how they'd acted, just like you might remember once having loved polyester pant suits but the thought now filled you with loathing. Janet explained what Sam had told them about the Nocnitsa and how he believed the will-o'-wisps were her agents.

Dean nodded with pride. "Good one, Sammy."

"We should call them, let them know we're okay," Peter said. He reached for his cell phone then slapped his pockets. "Damn, where's my phone?"

Janet reached for her bag. "I've been holding onto all your phones for safekeeping. When you tried to use them as boats in a bathtub, we had no choice." She returned them their phones.

Dean scanned his. "Got a voicemail from Sam." He played back Sam's message, his face becoming grim as he listened. He'd put it on speaker and played it again so they could all hear.

Janet was bewildered at Sam's words. "Why is he talking about shoes?" Dean stared back at her like she was speaking a foreign language.

Chloe shook her head and murmured under her breath, "When he said 'vamps,' he wasn't talking about shoe vamps but vampires."

"Vampires? In New Jersey?"

 

* * *

 **_Notes_ ** _: Join me next Wednesday for Chapter 3: Hot Blooded when Neal and Peter have their first encounters with vampires while behind the scenes something even more ominous emerges._

_Although they sound like something out of Supernatural, ZomBees are real and a serious threat to honey bee populations. The Nocnitsa is a nightmare spirit in Slavic mythology._

_I have pins for the Peeper Jamboree, our dork-afflicted heroes as well as the Nocnitsa on the Whispers in the Night Pinterest board. Dorky dancing is the subject of my blog this week. The actors of the TV series have provided rich reference material for their inner dorks. I selected some of my favorites. Penna Nomen wrote about Neal's unusual job interview in Caffrey Conversation. It's a timely subject since she's in the midst of job interviews herself._

_Thanks to Penna for providing superlative beta services and to all of you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation:_ [_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Whispers in the Night board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. Hot Blooded

**On the Road. April 9, 2005. Saturday night.**

"Right. Vampires in New Jersey. . . ."

Peter reviewed once more how he found himself driving a suspected criminal into a swamp in the middle of the night to hunt vampires. But twenty-four hours ago, he never would have conceived that his actions could be controlled by a curse. This had to be all Mozzie's fault.

Dean underwent a transformation when he heard the voicemail from his brother. The snarky laid-back wiseass was replaced with someone Peter could relate to—all business and focused on the mission, with the intensity of a federal agent who knew his comrades were in harm's way. Dean's sense of urgency was transmitted to Peter. Not that he for a minute believed Neal had been kidnapped by vampires, but that something was seriously wrong, yeah he'd go along with that.

Chloe had related an incredible tale of casting a spell which inadvertently placed a curse on all the men of Buttonwood. She gave them directions to the location where Neal and Sam were supposedly hunting some sort of swamp-witch-demon. Peter suspected they'd stumbled upon a gang hideout, but Dean insisted Sam knew what he was talking about. Whatever. They needed to be rescued.

Peter spent a few precious minutes trying to argue Dean out of his vampire notions, but it was hopeless. Once they'd freed Neal and Sam from the gang, then he'd have the proof to show Dean how ridiculous his theory was.

Mozzie offered to come along, but when the self-proclaimed germophobe blanched at the mere mention of vampires, it was obvious he'd be no help. On that, at least, Dean and Peter concurred. Peter persuaded Mozzie that his talents were needed by Janet and Chloe, who were attempting to reassure the roadhouse patrons.

Peter had his own calming to do when Dean discovered his Impala was missing as well. His curses at not having any gear available were equivalent to Peter's when Dean wouldn't let him call the police. That argument had turned into a shouting match which they took outside, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that Peter conceded that calling in a report of vampires on the loose in Black Ash Swamp would get them nowhere.

Now they were driving to the swamp in Peter's Taurus. The one good thing in this disaster of a weekend was that Dean didn't complain at his driving, not that he didn't have a few choice words about driving to hunt vamps in a Taurus.

"If we don't find Baby, we're dead in the water," Dean warned for the third time.

Peter racked his memory for what vampire lore he could remember. "What about garlic? A cross?"

"Old wives tales. The only way to gank them is by beheading, and before you ask, silver bullets don't work either."

Peter's cell phone buzzed an incoming message. He exhaled in relief when he saw who sent it—the FBI Newark office.

Dean glanced over at him. "They get the coordinates for you?"

Peter nodded. "Neal's watch is still sending a signal."

Dean had Sam's laptop in the car, and pulled up the location from the GPS coordinates displayed on Peter's phone. "It's about midway through the swamp and a mile north of the highway. If the Impala is where Chloe said she cast the spell, it should be close. Lucky for us, you two have those Dick Tracy watches. I need them for Sam and me."

"You won't find these at any surplus store. They're special issue. Neal and I've been wearing them since threats were made against us."

Dean shot him a quick look. "Threats to white collar agents? Was somebody mad you'd confiscated their DVDs?"

Peter ignored his comment. "Sam should be with Neal. We'll soon find out if it's a gang hideout or a vamps' den."

"Nest," Dean grumbled. "It's vamps' _nest_ , not den. If you're gonna hunt with me, at least learn the lingo." In an undertone he muttered, "Dick."

Peter bit back the sharp retort and focused on driving. He took a turn that would have had Neal closing his eyes and wanting to bail out. Neal should be in the car right now, not lost in the swamp, kidnapped by gang members, vampires, or something worse. Tied up, beaten senseless. . . .  

Peter had seen the photos of Neal when he'd been abducted as a child. So much blood. . . .The cops had drawn a line of chalk around his body because they thought he was dead. The photos had been so horrific that Peter still had nightmares over them. The man who'd inflicted those terrible injuries died before Peter met Neal. There was nothing Peter could do and he'd hated the feeling of powerlessness. Would he once again be too late to save Neal?

"He'll be all right." Peter was startled that Dean read his thoughts so well. "Sam knows what he's doing. But I should have been with Sam, not some art student consultant, no offense."

"None taken. For once I agree with you."

"If I hadn't let myself be taken in by a stupid wisp-pire, I'd be the one in the swamp. Sam's good, but facing vamps on his own . . . " He looked over at Peter and winced. "Kids, what can you do? You try to keep 'em safe and they go and get captured by a pack of vamps."

Peter appreciated the sentiment. "You've had experience with vampires?"

"Yeah, we've faced them a couple of times. Learned how they think, how they act."

"And obviously you made it out okay."

"Yeah, but don't get cocky. They're tough, very tough."

"Damnit, Neal, you better not have gotten cocky," Peter muttered.

"Look, they've got a chance. Vamps don't usually kill their victims immediately. They use them as feedbags for a while first."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"It should. Vamps like fresh blood, so if they've been caught, they may just be holding—"

"That's the road sign saying we've entered the swamp," Peter interrupted. "According to Chloe, we should start seeing skunk cabbage."

"She said it was in bloom—bright yellow spikes. We can't miss them in this full moon."

Peter slowed down as they scanned the swamp. It wasn't five minutes before they found their first clump. The skunk cabbage was growing in a ditch along the road. Peter stopped the car and they got out. The swamp was a raucous symphony of peeping frogs. Peter was familiar with skunk cabbage from his days of tramping the woods in New York as a kid and he was fully appreciative of its potent smell. "You're sure we need to do this?" he asked.

Dean was already ripping leaves off the plants and placing them in a trash bag. "Best way to disguise our presence. Man, the smell makes me want to puke, though. Vamps rely mainly on their sense of smell to find their victims. This will give us more of a chance to sneak up on them. Their sense of hearing is also acute. They can hear your heartbeat when you're close."

Peter stood next to him, exhaled, and started ripping off leaves for himself. Whatever it takes …

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Neal … you with me?" Still no reaction. Sam had awakened a few minutes ago to find himself bound with ropes to a vertical metal beam in a shed. No sign of vamps. The only other human was Neal, who was tied to a beam about five feet away. His eyes were closed. No obvious wounds. They must have struck him from behind.

Sam tested his bonds. The vamps knew what they were doing. He didn't have any wiggle room to free himself. They were being held in an abandoned barn or maintenance shed. Steel frame construction. Concrete floor. The amount of blood stains on the floor indicated the nest had been here a while. Miscellaneous gear and equipment around. They were in what seemed to be an alcove. Hard to judge the dimensions.

Sam longed to rub his aching jaw. At least he'd gotten in some good punches before they overwhelmed him. A groan alerted him Neal was waking up. "Neal, you okay?"

He blinked and opened his eyes, grimacing. "What happened?"

"Your lucky day. It's not often you get the thrill of marauding will-o'-wisps, a Nocnitsa, and vampires all in one evening."

Neal stared at him wide-eyed like he'd gone off the deep end. "Huh?"

Sam gave him the two-minute lowdown on vampire lore. Rather to his surprise, Neal didn't give him grief for being a wacko.

"What do you think they're up to now?" Neal was stretching his back and flexing his arms while they talked. They must have roughed him up.

"They're probably on a hunt for more vics. Laying in a food supply. How bad are your injuries?"

"Nothing to speak of," Neal said with a grin and wiggled his hands free. He bent down to work on the rope binding his ankles.

"How did you manage that? You some sort of Houdini?"

Neal shrugged. "That's me. I didn't spend my entire youth in pool halls. There was plenty of time for other pursuits." He was working on the last knot.

"When you get loose, run for help. I called Dean and left a message. Hopefully he got it and is on his way. Get yourself as far away—"

"I'm not leaving you here to face vampires alone. That's not open for debate so don't waste time talking about it." Neal kicked his ropes out of the way and darted over to Sam. The vamps had used even more ropes on him. Sam listened for any sound of them returning but the frogs were so noisy, it was hard to hear anything else.

Neal jerked his head around. "You hear something?"

Sam heard it too. "Run!"

Too late. With a _whoosh_ , two vamps were on Neal before he had a chance to take off.

The taller one grabbed Neal's arms and held them behind his back while the other yanked back his head to spit in his face. "Where d'ya think you're going? We haven't had dinner yet." He let his fangs drop down and brought them within inches of Neal's face. "I should go ahead and have you as an appetizer."

"Leave him alone!" Sam shouted. "You want blood, take mine." The vamps were both young, powerfully built. Neal didn't stand a chance of escaping.

"Don't you worry, we'll feast on both of you," the taller one snarled, "but first we're gonna nibble on this calf. What d'ya think, Frankie? Since ropes don't work so well with him, should we let Doc have at him?"

Neal was attempting to break free, lashing out with his legs, but he was no match. The vamps dragged him away to another section of the shed where Sam lost sight of him. Sam struggled against his own ropes but Neal hadn't been able to loosen them enough before he was captured.

Somewhere in the shed a door creaked open. Had Dean found them?

That brief hope fizzled when two more vamps rushed toward him.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"There she is!" Dean exhaled in relief when he spotted Baby parked at the pull-off. "Exactly where Chloe said she'd stopped. We're finally catching a break." He turned to Peter. "You ready to smoke some vamps?"

Peter nodded as he parked the car next to the Impala, his war face already in place. "You said you had an extra machete?"

Dean got out of the car. "You can use Sam's if he didn't take it. Here's the drill. We smear ourselves with skunk cabbage, grab the machetes and darts, and go hunting."

"Hold on. Darts? Against vampires?" He popped the trunk of the Taurus and tossed Dean a bag.

"These aren't ordinary darts," Dean said. He reached into the bag for a handful of leaves and wiped himself down. God, they stank.

Peter balked. That was starting to get annoying. "Care to clue me in?"

"You're not satisfied to know I got special darts? The stuff inside these babies is a poison. It makes vamps so sick they can't move for several minutes and that gives you time to behead them. You're better off not knowing what the poison is. We don't have many of them, so make sure each one counts."

"That's not how it works. What's in the darts?"

Dean shrugged. "Your call. It's dead man's blood." As Peter's eyes bulged in shock, he added, "And don't bother asking me how I got it. We're wasting time."

Peter started to speak, checked himself, and nodded. "How many darts you got?"

"Two for each of us." Dean walked over to the Impala. "And don't give me any grief about what you see in the trunk."

Peter had his hands on his hips, but Dean ignored him as he raised the lid. He couldn't hold back a smile when he saw his gear—guns, ammo, blades, everything the well-equipped hunter needed in his arsenal. "Hold on, Sammy," he muttered under his breath. "Your badass brother's back and loaded for game."

Minutes later they were trudging down the dirt path which based to the GPS coordinates from Neal's watch would lead them to at least Neal and more than likely Sam too. Peter and he both smelled like rotten meat from the skunk cabbage. Was it worse than tramping in the sewers? Maybe. On the Winchester odor meter it was hovering close to the bottom—below sulfur but a damn sight better than freshly exhumed coffin stench.

Gotta give Peter points. He didn't complain. For a fed he wasn't a total dick. Dean was picking up a lot of dad vibes from him about Neal. Made him wonder what their story was.

Power poles stretched along the path. Something was getting electricity. Sam called about two hours ago. They should still be alive. The vamps would have taken them back to feast on them later . . . unless they got too provoked. Those missing person reports. Dean knew he should have followed up on them. He'd been sloppy. Now Sam was paying the price, and it was Dean's fault.

"He'll be with Neal," Peter muttered. "He'll be okay."

"Yeah, probably. It's just . . . he's my brother, you know. We're all we got, Sammy and me. It's different for you. I'm not saying you're not close—it's pretty obvious you are—but you're not kin. You don't have the same blood flowing in you."

Peter didn't answer. The frogs were now their allies, helping to mask any sound they made. At the speed they were going, the signal appeared to be about fifteen minutes from the road. Peter had a device which enabled him to track the signal at close distances. Dean longed to have similar equipment for him and Sam. It'd make their lives so much simpler. Maybe they could work out a trade.

They were in stealth mode, hiding behind trees and surveying the path ahead before proceeding. The narrow path led cut through dense woods. No way could Baby have plowed through it. The woods were a stroke of luck though. They provided more cover. 

No sign of hostiles yet. The vamps could have left Sam and Neal tied up and gone out for more hunting. He and Peter could rescue them and escape before they returned. Yeah, and there's a pot of gold at the base of every rainbow, too.

They rounded a turn in the path and saw a steel frame building in the distance. It might once have been a park office or maintenance shed, but it looked abandoned. The steel was rusting in several places. No windows. Dean tapped Peter on the shoulder and pulled out a dart. So far all was quiet, but through breaks in the steel siding he could lights. They'd found the nest. Were the vamps gone?

Nope.

The door opened. Two vamps, a man and a woman. Dean spared a quick glance over at Peter. He was in position behind a tree, a dart in hand. Within seconds the vamps detected their presence and charged them. Any doubts Peter might have had about them being human must have vanished when he saw the speed they traveled.

Dean got off a dart before the vamp could attack. Peter was struggling with the other—a woman. Dean plunged the dart in her neck and she fell like a stone.

Their targets were sprawled on the ground, glaring at them, unable to walk or talk. Dean knelt down in front of the man and pulled back his lips to expose his fangs. "Pretty, huh?" Peter stared in disbelief. Dean did the same with the woman. Peter obviously hadn't believed him earlier. Well, he did now.

"Is there any way they can be turned back?" He must be thinking about the woman. The guy was so ugly, no one would have wanted to save him.

"No. It's too late." He pulled out his machete. "You can look away if you want." Killing things—this was his job.

For his first time out, Peter did all right. He didn't hurl when Dean cut off their heads. Not easy to stomach for anyone to watch, but it had to be done. "There may be more inside," Dean warned. "You know what to do."

Peter nodded. His face was whiter than normal, but he didn't ask any stupid questions. He was letting Dean lead the way. Peter got it. This was Dean's turf.

Dean nudged the shed door open. It creaked an alarm and he froze. Peter halted in his tracks too.

No sounds inside. Too quiet.

The shed was a jumble of farm machinery and equipment. Appeared to be some side rooms. A skittering on the floor. Rats, maybe? He hated rats. Dean crept along one wall. Peter took the opposite side, his jaw locked in hunter mode, one hand holding a machete, the other a dart. He was no Sam, but in a clutch, he'd do.

They passed a couple of beams which had a jumble of ropes at their bases. Dean paused and knelt down by the floor. It was stained with blood, some of it fresh. A holding area? Had Sam and Neal been here?

They moved further into the interior. A side room had lights on. The door was open. They peered inside and abandoned all thoughts of being quiet.

Sam and Neal—alive, but what the hell?

They were strapped onto tables, bound and gagged. Catheters had been inserted into their arms. Their blood was being siphoned into glass graduated beakers. 

Sam struggled against his bonds when he saw them. Neal was in worse shape, his eyes only slits. He didn't show any reaction to their arrival. There was much more blood in his container than Sam's.

Dean raced forward to help Sam, and saw Peter out of the corner of his eye do the same with Neal. Dean ripped the catheter free and then removed Sam's gag. "About time," Sam muttered.

"Got here as fast as I could," Dean said, tearing off a piece of his shirt to bind his wound. "You could have left me Baby. I had to come here in a Taurus."

"How's Neal?" Sam asked. "They started on him before me."

"Don't know yet," Peter growled as he bound Neal's arm. "Whoever put the catheter in knew what he was doing."

Peter was right. Those catheters had been inserted with medical precision. None of the vamps he knew showed such finesse. Hack and slash was their style. And those beakers looked like they belonged in a medical lab. What was this—the _General Hospital_ of vamps?

"Hey, welcome back," Dean looked over when he heard Peter and was relieved to see Neal was coming around.

Neal broke into a half-smile. "God, you look good . . . and smell bad. What'd . . .you step into?"

"Is that any way to address your rescuer?" Peter began untying the ropes binding his legs. "Just stay quiet. I got this."

"Neal already freed himself once," Sam said. "That's why they started on him first."

Dean helped Sam off the table, relieved to hear Sam protest that he could manage without. "Yeah right. 'cause you're such a badass. Humor me." Dean glanced down at the beaker Sam's blood had been siphoned into—maybe a pint. He'd been lucky. "We gotta get out of here, before others return. By the size of this place there could be several more nesting here." He jerked his head in Neal's direction. "Can he walk?"

"Not without help," Peter said. The amount of blood they'd drained off looked to be close to two pints.

"I'm okay," Neal mumbled.

"Um-hmm. Sure you are," Peter said. "Wanna try putting those feet on the ground and see how it goes?"

Dean had to give the kid points. He made an effort but his legs were about as effective as soggy fries. "You gonna be able to manage?" Dean demanded.

"You take care of Sam. I got him," Peter said, slinging Neal's arm over his shoulder and hoisting him up.

Dean checked on their progress as they exited the shed and didn't like what he saw. Neal was too weak to help much. They still had a mile hike ahead of them to get back to the car and they weren't going nearly fast enough.

Sam shook off Dean's arm. "I can manage on my own. Go help Peter."

Sam knew the score. Dean didn't argue with him but sprinted back to Neal and got on his other side. "No back talk. If we don't get out of here, we're all going to be on the menu."

Peter nodded his thanks. "Once we're back to the cars, I'll call the state police."

"You can't do that, man," Dean protested. "You want to lose your job? How are you going to explain those corpses? We'll come back tomorrow and burn the corpses. The other vamps will be long gone. Once a nest is discovered, they desert it."

They made it back to their cars without incident. Neal was mumbling he was okay. Peter was insisting he needed to go to the hospital. Sam didn't need to see a doc. A bandage, a couple of extra cheeseburgers, and he'd be ready to roll.

Why didn't Peter understand you can't waltz into a hospital and report a vampire attack as the cause of the injury? After much arguing, Dean finally persuaded him to wait to do anything till they were back at the roadhouse. Surely Peter would have calmed down by then. Neal was conscious. He wasn't bleeding out. What was the big deal?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I'm fine. . . . Forget the hospital. . . . Do you want Dean to think I'm a wuss?"

Peter spared a quick glance from the road to check on Neal sprawled in the back seat. He'd revived enough to be annoying but not enough to give Peter much peace of mind. Even in the darkness of the car he was far too pale. With the amount of blood he'd lost, hemorrhagic shock was a real possibility. And the Bureau training course on emergency medical procedures had gone into graphic detail about the complications which could arise from traumatic blood loss. The kid has just been attacked by vampires after all. Peter's growl was not adequate to express the severe heartburn inspired by the entire misadventure. Relying on Mozzie for assistance was not ever something he relished, but these were desperate times. Peter had called him from the car and Mozzie was checking on hospital locations. They'd assess the situation at the roadhouse.

"What died in here?"

"That's skunk cabbage and you should learn to love it. Thanks to it we were able to sneak up on those vamps and rescue you."

"So it's vamps now? You turning hunter on me?" Peter wheeled into a turn at slightly faster than the posted speed. "Just kill me now," Neal mumbled.

Peter smiled. _Keep it up, kid_. Neal felt well enough to complain. He'd take that as a positive omen.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean gunned the Impala and shot forward. "What kind of speed demon is Burke? He's leaving us in the dust. Baby outclassed by a Taurus? Did the guy put vamp blood in his tank?" Well, Peter wasn't the only one who could lay rubber. Sam had gotten out the first aid kit from the back and was smearing antiseptic on his wounds. "You all right?"

"Yeah. About what you'd expect from a night in the swamp."

"That's my boy. No wusses here."

Sam shrugged as he taped his arm. "Neal lost a lot more blood than me."

They pulled into town directly behind Peter and stopped at the roadhouse. Peter must have called ahead because Mozzie, Janet, and Chloe were outside waiting for them. Chloe … Not the best introduction to the chick. Dean preferred saving his inner dork for at least the second date. The way she turned scarlet when Janet called him _Ravensword_ was promising. It made him think they could be writing their own torrid romance in the future.

When he got out of the car, Dean glanced over at the Taurus. Neal was stretched out on the back seat but appeared in reasonable shape, giving him a casual wave with his hand.

"The nearest hospital is an hour away, but there's an emergency clinic next to the fire station here in town," Mozzie said. "After you called, I talked with the doctor who runs it—he was the one who was cracking the whip when we sang 'Rawhide.' He offered to meet us there."

"At least something positive came out of that disastrous performance," Peter said with a groan. "I'll take Neal there now." He turned to Dean. "You know where it is?"

Sam started to speak but Dean beat him to it. Chloe was eyeing Sam's bruises and scrapes with concern. Hell, he wasn't going to let her think he didn't care. "I remember. C'mon, Sammy, you gotta get checked out, too."

Sam stared at him like he'd just ordered a smoothie. "But I'm—"

He put an arm around him. "No arguments. Let me help you get back in the car."

"Are you nuts?" Sam muttered. "What scam are you pulling?"

"Just listen to your big brother for once, okay?" Chloe was gazing at her Ravensword adoringly as he opened the door for Sam. This night was turning out all right.

**The Bullfrog Roadhouse. April 10, 2005. Sunday midday.**

"Pie, that's what you need." Dean slapped the base of the ketchup bottle to drench his fries with more tomato goodness. "And another bacon cheeseburger. Best remedy for blood loss." He turned his head for the waitress, beckoning her over with a wink and a smile.

Neal felt like grinning himself. They'd assembled at the roadhouse for a meal together before heading home. He'd gotten back to the inn around three o'clock and after several hours of solid sleep, with no pillow fights, was feeling like his old self again. The best sight was seeing Mozzie back to normal, or what passed for normal in Mozzie-land.

"I wouldn't have dreamed a clinic would let their blood expire," Chloe said. "I'll have to use that in one of my stories."

Peter set down his burger and wiped the grease off his lips. "In this case it was understandable. The nurse in charge of supplies was going to replace the blood but had been one of the first victims to the curse. They discovered too late he'd been spending his time building a space station out of specimen cups in the back storeroom."

"But it all worked out," Sam added. "The doctor had served in Iraq and was familiar with the Walking Blood Bank."

"What's that?" Janet asked.

"The U.S. military developed the procedure for battlefield situations," Peter explained. "Soldiers are screened for suitability and act as emergency donors. The doctor told us fresh blood has some advantages over stored blood. It has better blood-clotting capability for one."

Neal was amused to see Chloe scribbling notes as Peter described the procedure. That was definitely going to appear in a future story.

"I, of course, immediately volunteered to donate blood," Dean told Chloe. "I'm a type O—universal donor. It's just one of my many outstanding attributes. Is Ravensword type O?"

She smiled as she made an additional note. "He is now."

"But if anyone's going to donate blood to Neal, it's me," Peter interjected firmly. "We're the same blood type."

"It was quite an experience," Neal added. "I was stretched out on a gurney, feeling fine—"

"—No you weren't!" Dean and Peter protested in unison.

"As I said, feeling _fine_ , and the two of them were fighting over who would donate blood to me. In the meantime, Mozzie was standing off to the side, growing paler and paler. He looked like he was the one needing Dean's blood."

"I was determined to be there for support," Mozzie broke in, "even with the number of germs that were present, and who knows when that place had been sterilized last, what with half of the personnel out of commission for the past several days."

"Stop talking, Neal, and finish your burger," Peter ordered. "You still have a slice of banana cream pie, and we're not leaving until you finish. Fun as this has been, I am so ready to leave."

Neal obediently resumed work on his cheeseburger. Peter had also ordered a milkshake for him. Did the fact he now had Burke blood circulating in his veins give Peter carte blanche to dictate his eating habits? But Neal didn't mind. So far Peter had been so focused on him, he hadn't thought of checking with Janet for any photos. Neal had asked her about them earlier in the day when Peter wasn't around. Based on her description, he knew El would want to see them too. It wasn't often that Peter could share the details of an investigation with his wife, but this wasn't an FBI case. In the interest of harmonious marital relations, Peter would want to give a full and detailed account, and Neal would make sure he was present to help Peter out if he forgot anything.

Peter nudged him. "Private joke?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Just looking forward to returning home."

"So we're agreed, you're not going to report this incident to the authorities?" Sam asked Peter.

He rumbled his acknowledgment. "I'm not happy about it, but until the FBI has a Demonic Crimes Unit, there doesn't seem to be much point."

Dean turned to Chloe. "Is this adventure going to appear in one of your stories?"

She rested her chin on her propped up arm and gazed into his eyes. "You'll have to wait and see."

"How large a role will Ravensword have? If you'd like to interview me for technical advice, I could be persuaded. Your weapon descriptions could be improved."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"In fact, why don't we let the others finish their meal while you and I sit over there to discuss equipment?" Dean stood up and called the waitress over for a couple of beers.

Janet watched them saunter over to another table with an approving smile on her face. "Mozzie and I've decided we're going to stay a little while longer."

"This week didn't go as I'd intended," Mozzie said, putting an arm around her. "I plan on making it up for the next couple of days. But no more evening trips to the swamp."

"Instead we'll look for butterflies. It's been an early spring. Perhaps meadow fritillaries or painted ladies . . ." Janet's eyes grew dreamy.

Neal leaned over to Sam and asked in a low voice, "Any reports of demonic butterflies in the area?"

"I think they're safe, but then again, you never know." He got out his wallet and pulled out a business card. He scribbled a phone number on it and gave it to Neal. "My number, just in case."

Neal looked at the front of the business card and grinned. It was for Elwood Blues of the Butte, Montana Police Department.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Where are you off to now?" Dean asked, leaning against the door of the Mustang and looking especially hunky as Chloe finished packing the trunk. She lectured herself to act nonchalant and hard to get.

Dean had offered to help with her luggage, but Chloe had her system. He could have inadvertently crushed some of the herbs drying in the back. He took it well—didn't insist. He said he knew all about respecting the privacy of trunks.

He and Sam had already packed their car and were leaving too. Chloe glanced over at Sam who was sitting in the Impala, parked a few yards away, and studiously absorbed in his laptop. "I landed a job with a company in Boston. After I stop in at the office, I'll write in Salem."

Dean smiled. "You plan to check out the local coven scene, don't you?"

"My next novel, _Monkshood by Moonlight_ , will be about witches and my ancestors are from that area. I intend to prowl through the old cemeteries for atmospheric color. The job sounds like a long one and it's a good location. I may be there for a while." She slammed the trunk lid and moved in close to him.

"Sam and I occasionally have a job in that part of the country. I might look you up."

_Careful, girl. Don't look too happy._ She shrugged. "Could be interesting. Izzy and Baby will miss each other. I already have my inn picked out. It's called the Curwen House. The rooms have canopy beds, whirlpool baths. . . . "

"Whirlpool baths, huh." He shrugged. "Ravensword would like that. He could give you a few pointers about weapons . . . fighting techniques."

"You need any help with herbs or spells, you know who to call." She opened the door and slid behind the wheel. "See ya around, Ravensword."

Once she was alone in the car, Chloe indulged in a grin. If Janet were in the car, she'd be teasing her about the pheromones zipping back and forth between Dean and her. She bet she wouldn't have to wait long to hear from him.

She and Janet had exchanged contact info. She was looking forward to keeping in touch. They'd talked about making a joint field trip in the summer when the summer butterflies would be out and hyssop would be in bloom.

Chloe wheeled out of the parking lot, turned on the car stereo and started singing along to "Sisters Are Doin' It for Themselves." As she sang, the first tantalizing ideas of a plot danced in front of her. Her publisher kept reminding her to keep the sizzle dialed up for Zoe and Ravensword and she aimed to deliver. The scenes she was planning would cause third-degree burns.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam turned to face Dean as they pulled away from the inn. "Dude, I thought I was going to have to hose the two of you down."

Dean tapped his foot on the accelerator. "I was simply helping her out with plot ideas."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, man, she could be useful. She joined quite a few witch chat rooms. Next time we run into a witch, I may need to look her up . . . delve into her database. . . ."

Sam snorted. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

Dean smiled.

"You know, Peter and Neal aren't bad," Sam said. "Peter could have caused us a helluva lot of trouble and he didn't."

"Yeah, and their wacko friend Mozzie. He's someone to cultivate. While you were sleeping it off this morning, I talked with him. He's gonna supply us with some better IDs. Says he has a good source. Told me not to mention it to Peter."

"Neal also has skills that aren't FBI approved. We may want to look them up again." Sam pulled out the roadmap from the glove compartment. "While you were smooth-talking Chloe, I called Bobby about the nest. Told him we'd check it out to make sure they'd left, but he said he'd handle it. He knows a hunter in south Jersey who'll take care of it. Bobby said since the vamps have our scent, someone else should follow up."

"Had he heard of any vamps playing Dr. Kildare?"

"He was particularly interested in that. A hunter had told him of a similar situation in Rhode Island last month. Bobby thought he was making it up. But now— two nests, similar M.O.—he's going to look into it. Bobby believed vampires were almost extinct, but in the past few months he's been getting more and more reports. Something to watch out for."

"So where we off to now?"

"I found a report of what sounds like a werewolf in Scranton."

Dean nodded with satisfaction. "Good times." He glanced over at Sam. "You feeling okay after last night?"

Sam flexed his arms. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"No visions? 'Cause you know it hasn't been that long you were having those nightmares."

"Stop worrying. I'm _fine_."

Dean chuckled. "Okay, don't get twisted . . . bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean turned on the stereo and stepped on the gas as the opening chords of "Bad to the Bone" blared out. Dean started slapping the steering wheel to the music and singing along.

Sam smiled. The family business had its moments.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter tossed his bag into the back seat and slid behind the steering wheel. "You ready to go home, Sundance?"

Neal fastened his seat belt. "Yeah, Butch, I've had enough of rural America to last me for several months. New York City's calling to me. You don't mind if I roll down the window, do you? The service station did an adequate job, but there's still a slight whiff of rotting meat."

"If that's all you're concerned about, I'd say you're in good shape. I checked the map, though. There's a hospital on the way. We could stop for a quick blood test—"

Neal waved it off as Peter knew he would. "What are you worried about? I got Burke blood in me now." He paused and stroked his chin, "On the other hand, if I start exhibiting unusual symptoms like a love for paperwork, deviled ham . . . Perhaps we should make a stop. I may need a full transfusion."

"Oh no. That's the good stuff you got now." Peter stopped at the light. "You know, I don't see any reason to tell anyone at the office about what happened here, do you?"

Neal grinned. "No jokes about Peter the Dork? It will be a sacrifice but I can suppress myself. They wouldn't believe me anyway. What happens in Buttonwood—"

"—Stays in Buttonwood, thanks. Just for that I'll let you pick all the music on the way home. Any requests?"

He glanced over at Neal who was making a production of pondering the question. "It's a funny thing. I have a sudden craving for Foreigner. That Burke blood must be rising up in me. How about 'Hot Blooded'?"

"You got it," Peter said happily, slipping the CD into the player.

Neal started bellowing the song at the top of his lungs and Peter joined in. Hell, why not? Nobody was around to record them.

**A House in the Woods. Sunday evening.**

"Delicious." Maia held the wine glass up to the light filtering in from the stained glass window. The blood was a crimson pool of seductive pleasure within the sparkling cut glass.

Electra watched her sister drink, her long blonde hair cascading down the velvet back of the sofa. When she'd drained the glass, she tilted her head to ask, "Could I have some more?"

Electra smiled. "Of course. Which would you prefer?"

Maia eyed the two crystal decanters on the mahogany cocktail table. The silver labels had been flipped over, preventing her from reading the names. "The first one is captivating, but my preference is for the second. There's a smoky sweetness to it which I find irresistible. A kindness tempered with sadness." She rolled her tongue over her lips as she considered. "There's an additional spice to it. Could it be a hint of something demonic?" She smiled radiantly. "I can't remember when I've been so excited."

Electra nodded with satisfaction as she refilled Maia's glass. "You've chosen well. The first one is mine and I don't think I'll share him with anyone." Sinking deep into the cushions of the wing chair, Electra took another sip. The blood, a sensual caress, slithered down her throat and filled her with warmth. "His potential is the highest I've encountered for decades. Yes, this one I'll savor for a long time to come."

"How fresh is it?"

"The shipment arrived this afternoon—from New Jersey of all places. Who would have imagined New Jersey held such delights?" She traced the etched pattern of the glass with her fingernail. "It was worth all the hours of training we had to give those thralls. They barely deserve to be called vampires."

Maia sighed in sympathy. "The world has been drained dry of pure-bloods. We must make do with table scraps."

"These two were an unexpected gift. We may not have any others till the new generation arrives."

"And what is the name of my chosen one?" Maia wet her lips as she leaned forward.

Electra smiled indulgently and flipped the labels. "He was a challenge. The boy had several IDs in his wallet, but he can't hide from me. His name is Sam."

"And yours?" Maia rose from the sofa and strolled over to the cocktail table, bending low to read the Gothic script. "Neal. That's Irish, isn't it?"

"Yes. I prefer the original spelling—Niall." Electra rested her head on her propped up elbow as she let her mind drift back through the centuries.

"As I recall Niall ignited a passion in you I haven't seen for ages. How many years ago was that?"

"Seventeen hundred? Sixteen hundred? But the years are inconsequential. Niall means _champion_ in Irish. This boy may turn out to be my new champion."

Maia ran her finger along the inside of the glass and licked it. "Perhaps I shall visit Sam tonight. Only a brief excursion."

Electra stood up and strolled over to the oak-paneled wall ablaze with the light of the stained glass panels. Seven sisters in the firmament. Their hour was once more at hand. "Patience. The time is not yet come for these two."

Maia pouted. "But I've waited so long."

Electra sat beside her and took the glass from her hand. "They're too young. Look into your heart. You know that. Give them time and our pleasure will be all the greater."

Maia rested her head on Electra's shoulder. "Still, a little nibble won't hurt."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: As Dean and Sam drive out of Buttonwood, they may wonder if they'll ever bump into Peter and Neal again. Gazing into my crystal ball, I predict their paths will cross in mid-May 2005 (a month later in their timeline) for the second story in the Crossed Lines series, Witches' Sabbath._

_As for Electra and Maia, they will also insist on making a return appearance. Electra is advising her sister to hold off for now. Will she? Electra was being annoyingly vague as to why. Much more about their story is coming up in Witches' Sabbath. Photos of the sisters and their house are pinned to the Whispers in the Night Pinterest board._

_Neal and Peter are wise to head back to New York City. In a few days there will be a major breakthrough in their investigation of the theft of a Raphael masterpiece. The next Caffrey Conversation story, Raphael's Dragon, is about to begin. I'll start posting it on August 24. If you'd like to refresh your memory on what happened in the previous story, The Mirror, there's a one-page detailed summary available on our blog. The link is on the Caffrey Conversation Story Summaries page._

_This chapter was in part inspired by a scene in Chapter 27 of Caffrey Flashback by Penna Nomen. At the time, Neal was confronting his inner demons from a childhood abuse incident. Peter said he donated blood to Neal when he was in the hospital recovering from a drug overdose to help Neal get over the notion it's in his nature to be a criminal. Peter's bluff was quickly revealed, but the comfort he provided by his "beautiful lie" was a big help in Neal's recovery. In this story the demons Neal fought are real and the need was a physical one, but the signal Peter sent was the same._

_Neal, Sam, and Dean have all had ways of life thrust upon them. That's my topic for our blog. The post is called "Bloodlines." Penna wrote about what developed out of her decision to use Pride and Prejudice for help with character names. The title of her post is "Caffrey Conversation Meets Jane Austen."_

_Thanks to all of you for going on this first Crossed Lines road trip with me. A supersized thank you to Penna for serving as navigator. I felt like she was sitting in the seat next to me throughout the journey—pointing out the sights, alerting me to potholes, and selecting the music. Consider this your invitation to join us on the next road trip!_

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation:_ [_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)  
  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: Whispers in the Night board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


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